


Cadenza (1/2)

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-15
Updated: 2001-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 55,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder and Scully return to San Francisco to protect a cursed violin virtuoso whose life is endangered by mysteries from the past.





	Cadenza (1/2)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Cadenza by Terma99

TITLE: Cadenza  
AUTHOR: Terma99  
EMAIL:   
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer-YES! Clinique-YES! Xemplary-YES! Spookys-YES! All others--I'd love it, but please let me know.  
SPOILERS: Up to late Sixth Season--specific for Elegy and vaguely for One Son.  
RATING: NC-17 for m/m sexual situations  
GENRE: X-File (M/S-UST, Mulder/Other, slash)  
CLASSIFICATION: X  
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully return to San Francisco to protect a cursed violin virtuoso whose life is endangered by mysteries from the past.  
MY NOTES: My first full-length novel, Cadenza was born from my love of classical music and my obsession with Mulder and my need to crawl into his head and lead him into all walks of erotic experience. I'm thankful to the fanfiction community for providing a forum for me to test my skills at plotting and character development over a 600K journey. I had first envisioned this story to be only around 100K and to mostly involve a foray into m/m sexuality for me as an erotic writer. As Joshua came into being I became more and more fascinated by him and the erotic took a backseat to the characters and plot that continued to grow until the scope reached novel-length. Cadenza is both a casefile and a Mulder/other romance with some unusual M/S situations I don't think I've seen explored quite this way before. I hope you all enjoy it!  
TIME FRAME: Cadenza covers the period late in season six, when to my eyes, Mulder and Scully seemed to be very distant and bitter toward one another. I wondered why, and also wondered why Scully, after all these years, seemed to be so impatient with the paranormal nature of their investigations. I wondered what would happen if they ever came to terms with this tension and if those terms involved an unexpected same-sex romance for Mulder. Cadenza takes place during autumn, but doesn't necessarily follow or proceed any particular season six episodes.  
MUSIC: This fic was written under the influence of Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin, Vivaldi, Rachmaninov, Mendelssohn, Bruch, Schubert, Schumann, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Mozart, Sibelius, and the incomparable violinist, Christian Ferras, whose recordings are the embodying soul of Joshua. (See Music Notes for details and references to classical works mentioned in this novel.)  
HISTORICAL EVENTS: The historical events mentioned in Cadenza are real. Some of the details are tragic to the extreme. I took these historical accounts very seriously while writing this novel and have included more extensive notes at the end of this work for people who would like to know more.  
APOLOGIES: In my efforts to write as accurately as possible I read as much as I could on both the Russian and Ukrainian people, culture and language. I am not a linguist, however, and would like to apologize in advance for my poor phonetic spelling of the Russian language (translations courtesy of my brother's lovely fiance, Masha), and in particular, the scrambling of Russian fairytales to fit my plot--it's a bit like sending Humpty-Dumpty over to blow down the house of straw.  
SPECIAL THANKS: This fic novel would not have made it into a readable form without my amazingly supportive and brilliant beta team, specially assembled to handle my first slash-themed adventure: Sue, my apologizes for making you read slash!!; Robbie, my apologizes for lying about the number of chapters to come; Marion, thank you for jumping into both Cadenza and its music; Elisa, thanks for holding the shipper torch throughout the twists and turns of this fic; Sheri for falling in love with Joshua and his music; Peggy for your vital medical consultations (I feel I should file a claim with my insurance company ); and most of all thanks to Michelle for understanding my vision and providing moral, emotional, critical, and loving support above and beyond the call of duty and for taking such good care of my characters and loving them as much as I do if not more.  
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to the grand high sci-fiction genius Chris Carter to whom I send all devoted regards in care of 1013, FOX, and such. No infringement, no money intended--just one fan's way of worshipping perfection. The brilliant and beautiful Joshua, however, is all mine.  
DEDICATION: This story is for Michelle.

* * *

Cadenza  
by Terma99

"Does a Stradivarius violin feel the same rapture as the violinist when he coaxes a single perfect note from its heart?"  
\--Johnny Depp, "Don Juan De Marco"

Cadenza (n)-- an unaccompanied exhibition passage in the style of an improvisation, performed by the soloist at the climax of a concerto.

"And the manna ceased on the morrow after they had eaten of the old corn of the land; neither had the children of Israel manna any more..." Joshua 4:12

*********************************

Chapter One: The Curse

*********************************

FBI Headquarters  
8:45 AM  
Monday

"Beethoven, Bach or Brahms?"

When Mulder entered the basement, the room was resonating with the sighs and tremors of a violin. His partner had made herself comfortable behind his desk, upon which she had set a compact disk player. The lights were half off and the projector was displaying a slide of a symphony orchestra upon the haphazardly cleared wall.

Scully sat up straighter and accepted his paper cup latte offering as she eased the volume down on the CD player. "You're good, one out of three. Johannes Brahms, Concerto for Violin in D Major." She hit the advance on the projector to a black and white head shot of an intense-looking, dark-haired youth. "We're listening to the Brahms cadenza performed by one of our nation's top violin virtuosos, Joshua Segulyev. He made this recording with the New York Philharmonic in 1988 at the age of nineteen."

"He's pretty good," Mulder commented, slurping the foam head off his double mocha as he leaned back against the edge of the desk they seemed to take turns occupying nowadays.

"He earned a Grammy for it too, along with a three-year world tour contract with the London Royal Philharmonic. He was the youngest American-born violinist to earn such a prestigious position," she said, clicking ahead to a not-so-promising photograph of a toothless gray-haired female. Somehow the New York Philharmonic's serenade didn't quite match the woman's disheveled visage.

"Meet Alice Schmidt, a 44-year-old Philadelphia vagrant accused of planting four crudely made remote detonation devices in the courtyard of the newly constructed Philadelphia Regional Performing Arts Center. The explosives were discovered last week the eve of Segulyev's performance of the Brahms' as a part of the Center's gala opening." She clicked to a promo photo of the violinist taken on the stage of the new cello-shaped, mahogany-trimmed hall. "Needless to say, the City of Brotherly Love isn't taking too kindly to their misguided sister for threatening their 255 million dollar investment in the arts."

"I don't blame them," Mulder commented, stifling a yawn; the week was still too fresh for him. They'd just finished a whirlwind dead-end tour of the Dakotas last Saturday and he'd been looking forward to shuffling some alphabetized papers around. It looked like Scully had other plans. Somehow during the last year they had switched roles--she was now the early morning chair warmer, he the tardy coffee-fetching straggler. "Was any connection established between the two?"

"Circumstantially. Schmidt was found sleeping near the Center's trash receptacles the night of the gala and had on her possession a series of fanatical letters in various stages of completion threatening Segulyev. She's being held without bail at Philly County right now while Investigative Response searches every last inch of the structure."

"Good for them. Why should we be concerned? I thought we were off bomb sniffing for the duration."

"Not completely." Scully hit the slide to display another contemporary head shot of the artist--a rather stunning one. It must be nice to be both handsome and exceptionally gifted, Mulder thought, sipping his caffeine. The younger man had a look of passionate perseverance in his eyes--the look of someone who had been raised the toast of Europe. "Skinner tossed us this one because of a current newspaper clipping from the Philadelphia Inquirer." The projector clicked once more to illuminate a headline and article from the daily. *Artist Claims Bomb Threat Result of Ancient Family Curse.*

Mulder rolled his eyes over at his partner. "If I didn't know better I'd guess this was from the *National* Enquirer."

She furrowed her gaze slightly. "You losing your taste for the unexplained, Mulder?"

He nodded sardonically. "Only on Mondays."

"Curse or not, there seems to be new evidence suggesting that this was not the first threat made on Segulyev's life, just the most elaborate. More disconcerting is the call Agent Dillmont from the San Francisco Field Office placed this morning, informing us that Davies Symphony Hall has been receiving similar threats written in the same handwriting where Segulyev is currently rehearsing the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto."

"Alice was planning on pushing her shopping cart all the way to the Pacific?"

"Not with the front wheels jigging the whole way," she replied, shutting off the CD and the projection lamp while Mulder sank further onto the desk with a barely stifled groan.

"When do we leave for San Francisco?"

"As soon as you finish your coffee."

*********************************************************

Davies Symphony Hall  
San Francisco  
10:27 AM

The pink rosin ran smoothly over the bow, infusing the long taut hairs with a dusting of powder, a tooth with which to grip and tug at the strings. Deft slim fingers set the small reddish block aside to tighten the bow another half turn, holding the thin rod of rosewood loosely between thumb and glancing fingers of the right hand. The left reached and lifted the ancient dark stained neck of the Stradivarius, fitting it under the chin, almost nuzzling the instrument like a tiny child as it settled into place. Bow to string, the open 'A' sounded clear and rich over the trembling wire. Below, on the table, a small electronic sensor sent a red light flashing across a small screen.

It was a perfect 440 A, but Joshua Segulyev already knew that before his eyes tracked to the tuner's response. In his head he could hear the sound of 440 cycles per second moments before playing the note. He could also hear the tuning of the orchestra from where he stood in the private guest artist's green room. The damp San Francisco air was pitching the strings slightly flat, by only a few cycles. He adjusted his string accordingly and set about striking the rest of the strings in chorus, turning the fine metallic knobs at the base of the bridge until they all agreed.

Someone was rapping at the door; it was 10:30 precisely. San Francisco's music director was never anything but punctual.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Segulyev, the symphony is ready for you."

He tucked the instrument under his arm, and bow in hand, opened the door.

*********************************************************

6:25 PM

Mulder leaned against the stucco wall just outside the open stage door entrance to San Francisco's impressive Davies Symphony Hall. The Hall's ring of piano key-shaped windows glowed, casting a brilliant gold light out onto the street. Scully paced just inside the opened glass door, milling around the small cluster of school-aged fans waiting anxiously to meet the violinist on his way out.

Rehearsal had run over and the union musicians were collecting a hefty chunk of overtime as music director Michael Tilson Thomas took them through the final bars of what Scully called the 'Presto' for what must be the fifteenth time. Musicians were a determined lot. In the overhead monitor at the head of the stairs, Mulder could see them sitting like tiny Q-Tip heads between a deflecting barrier of black music stands and white paper. He shifted his legs, stiff from the long flight. He was tired; California was three hours behind DC, making it biologically about 9:30 PM. They hadn't had dinner yet, and the poor excuse for chicken piccata he'd eaten hours ago on the plane hardly counted for lunch. He should have requested the Hindu meal.

But for now he'd have to ignore his stomach and try to stay semi-alert in the cool San Francisco autumn air. It didn't help his mood that he had no particular interest in this case. It sounded like an attempt to get the financially liable, always controversial, X-Files unit to do something useful while getting a few suits off Skinner's ass. Mulder recognized that wasn't a very positive attitude to take on what could amount to a serious threat to an international celebrity, but he couldn't help it. For some reason these past few months he'd just not been himself--not on target, enthused or focused. Dammit, he just felt ... spent, for lack of a better word. He felt like a hamster in a fun ball, running nowhere, blindly, praying there wasn't a flight of stairs ahead.

He crossed his ankles and let the wall behind him support his frame. Maybe this mood was the harbinger of some kind of mid-life crisis, he mused. He was about due for one of those. What was it men tended to do? Dye their hair? Get a tattoo? Have an affair? That seemed to work for Scully, he thought, straightening up and watching her walk back through the pack of kiddies once more in those high black pumps she enjoyed wearing when they were sent someplace civilized. Of course in her case, it probably helped that she had gotten laid as part of the deal. At this point he felt he'd rather just skip the inking and go straight for the finale--get out of his head for a few days.

A clatter of applause from the monitor interrupted his thoughts as Segulyev bowed his thanks to the musicians and headed off stage right. Rehearsal was officially over. Mulder separated himself from the cold wall and entered the building, ascending to the top of the stairs to join his partner.

"You have something for him to sign?" he asked, amused to see that she was holding an opened rehearsal schedule in her hand.

"No," she replied, looking innocently up at him as she stuffed it in her coat pocket.

In a few minutes the artist emerged through the double doors. He passed his case and coat off to his manager and began to graciously greet his admirers and sign autographs. No wonder Scully was so anxious to take this case, the man was as strikingly handsome as his photographs. Impeccably dressed in pressed linen, lean build, not too tall--he favored the Russian half of his heritage with a lighter complexion accented with short dark wavy hair that displayed his Jewish side. How'd he manage to escape 'the nose?' Mulder wondered somewhat enviously. The agents lagged in the back until the children and parents dispersed. Scully pulled her badge instead of the program for him.

"Mr. Segulyev, we're Agents Scully and Mulder, FBI."

He raised his head in recognition. "You got here fast," he said in a clear American voice. For some reason Mulder assumed he'd speak with an accent. He *looked* like he should speak with an accent.

"It's our understanding Agent Dillmont contacted you yesterday, informing you we would be assisting on this latest case. We have questions for you..."

"Can we meet somewhere? I'd rather not do this here," he said in a hushed tone, subtly gesturing to the SF Symphony members beginning to exit through the doors past them.

"Certainly."

They followed him down the stairs to his waiting car and driver, double parked against the curb. Segulyev set his hand against the roof over the opened rear door as he turned to address them. "I don't really know what else I'm supposed to tell you," he said. "I've given all the information I have to the SFPD and Agent Dillmont."

"We're not here to investigate the Philadelphia incident," Mulder clarified. "We're here to find out why you told the Philly papers this was somehow family-related."

The younger man smiled incredulously. "You're kidding. You mean that garbage they ran about my 'curse?'"

"Are you saying you were misquoted?"

"No, just something I wish I hadn't mentioned in mixed company," he said, ducking into the long black car and gripping the door handle. "I'll be having dinner at New Joe's at Geary and Mason if you care to join me." He shut the door, leaving them in stunned reflection against the tinted windows as the car pulled away.

"He was certainly in a hurry," Scully said, somewhat insulted.

"Maybe you can still get that autograph over dinner," Mulder said, nudging his partner's elbow as they started back toward the garage.

*****************************************

New Joes Restaurant  
7:30 PM

Joshua made it a private amusement to watch people while they ate just to see what he could learn about them by observing their dining etiquette.

This pair was a real treat.

The male agent had ordered a large cube of lasagna that he pared at with his fork, swirling the mozzarella around the tines before polishing off each large bite. He ate with concentration, grace and very little fuss. His partner, on the other hand, found it necessary to redesign her food. She had carved up her whole leaf Caesar salad and thin slices of Romano into little nibbles. He had ordered a glass of Cabernet; she, a two-dollar bottle of Pellegrino, without ice. Both had been drinking out of the same water glass for the first ten minutes during the bread service before she noticed and scooted the glass closer to her plate.

Analysis: They were crazy about each other, yet doing their damnedest to hide it. It was a shame; they made a rather handsome couple.

"Mr. Segulyev..."

"Please, just Joshua. No one's been able to pronounce my last name correctly since my grandfather died. And if you don't mind, could I get your names again? I never remember on the first introduction."

The man lifted his fork. "Fox Mulder, but you can drop my first name, I've yet to meet anyone living or dead who can pronounce it to my liking."

His partner smiled slightly and gave her name. "Dana Scully, no special restrictions."

"Well, agents, what can I do for you?" Joshua had arrived ahead of them and was now full of whole shell clams, linguini, and Pinot Noir. He hoped he could get this embarrassment over with as soon as possible; he had a performance series to concentrate on this week.

"It's our understanding that you've received similar threatening letters prior to the Philadelphia incident," Mulder said, taking a sip of wine.

"I have," Joshua nodded. "But as I told Agent Dillmont, either myself or my personal manager, Nanette, threw most of them out. Some of them we didn't even bother to open. I hear from disturbed individuals from time to time."

"But you recognized the content of these letters from before?"

"Yes, or at least Nanette did. I don't open my own mail, usually. I guess I'm confused, I thought an arrest was made."

"A homeless woman in the central metropolitan area was discovered with three half-written letters on her person," Scully said. "But handwriting tests have yet to be conducted. We suspect she was used as a decoy."

Mulder pulled a set of folded papers from his coat pocket. "These are copies of the letters they found on her. Do they look familiar?"

Joshua motioned the waiter to come collect his plates so he could take a closer look at them in the restaurant's dim lighting. He studied them, and read what was legible. The handwriting looked scrawled, uneven, like a child's writing, attempting to make half-formed threats. "Yes, these look like the same person. They all ask for more or less the same thing. They want me to give up the stage."

"Do you remember when you received the first letter?" Mulder asked.

"Oddly enough, I do. It was about eight months ago. I had just returned to my residence in New York from my father's funeral in Pennsylvania. He was a farmer. Nanette balled the letter up and threw it in the trash. She was more upset about it than I was. Like I said, I really don't read my own mail."

"Until Philadelphia, all of the letters were received through your New York PO Box?" Scully asked, surrendering her refilled water glass to Mulder who had gulped his down already.

"Yes, at first anyway. The New York box is my main business address, although I maintain a residence here in San Francisco as well as one in Philadelphia. Lately, the nuisance has been dropping the notes just about anywhere--concert halls, symphony guilds. They're getting smarter. I may be able to ignore them, but my sponsors take them quite seriously. Which is why I'd like to ask for your discretion during this investigation. I don't need any additional bad press."

Mulder nodded, passing his finished plate off to the waiter. "Understood. But speaking of the press, would you care to elaborate on this?" He pulled out a copy of the Philly curse story.

Joshua shook his head, feeling suddenly quite wary. "I don't get it. Why would you even care about that?"

The agent folded his hands together and leaned slightly forward, looking him in the eye. "Agent Scully and I represent a special investigative unit in the FBI. We have a particular interest in the not-so-obvious explanations for criminal activity."

Joshua wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, and more confusing was his partner's apparent retractable reaction to his words. "You're serious," Joshua said.

The older man nodded. "Serious and curious."

His partner jumped in a little too eagerly to explain. "We're only interested in making sure we've uncovered every possible angle in this case. We don't want to have an encore of what nearly happened in Philadelphia."

Mulder glanced at her and she glanced back--only a half-second exchange that spoke volumes. It seemed they differed in opinion on their mission statement. Who was working for whom here? Joshua wondered. The US government certainly operated in mysterious ways.

"I simply referred to an old complaint of my father's while standing too close to a member of the press."

"Which was?" Mulder encouraged, ignoring his partner's controlled exhale.

"That we were cursed; our whole family was cursed. That we would never be truly successful."

"In what way, specifically?" Mulder urged.

Joshua looked away uncomfortably toward the kitchen door. He didn't want to be overheard. "My father used to tell my mother he was being shadowed by something--a wraith of some kind. He claimed it would appear right before a crop blight or drought. But I think his failures had a hell of a lot more to do with vodka."

"Sounds like the curse of the working class to me," Scully said.

"A wraith?" Mulder asked with interest. "As in a disembodied soul, or spectral manifestation?" Joshua met his eyes again. The man did seem to be genuinely intrigued. Joshua hoped this interview wouldn't be the start of one of those "special records" he heard the Bureau kept on certain well-known unstable individuals.

"It's a rough translation from the old Russian, 'dooch,' a word that means 'trickster shadow'--a spirit with a need to cause mischief among the living, or something like that. My father claimed to be followed by one. I, of course, thought he was nuts."

"But you think differently now that someone's causing you mischief, as you put it."

"I'll admit it made me think of my father," he sighed, leaning forward to emphasize to both agents his complete sincerity in what he was about to say. "But the reality is, the world only has so much attention to bestow upon the Isaac Sterns and Itzhak Perlmans of the world. I'm not a child anymore--no longer a circus act. Audiences want thirteen year-old virtuosos to parade around in tuxedos and ball gowns. I'll be thirty this Friday. Some of my patrons have already begun to pull out of my proposed tour schedule. These threats against me are just the excuse they were waiting for. I wish it was a curse, because then maybe I'd have some way of salvaging my career."

"You certainly don't believe your age alone will erase your accomplishments as a musician?" Agent Scully asked in his defense.

"No, not completely. But I may be forced into settling down, as they say in the industry. I may need to make a choice soon to establish myself within a particular symphonic association. MTT has invited me to remain in San Francisco and take over as concertmaster when Master Antolah retires in the spring."

"That's wonderful," Scully said.

He gave her a half-smile in return. "It's wonderful to anyone who isn't used to traveling from city to city. For over ten years now, I've never lived in one place for longer than a few months. I'm not sure I can stand it."

**************************************************

Marriott Hotel  
4th and Market  
9:45 PM

Mulder ended his day in the same manner he always did when traveling, with a hot shower and a bag of sunflower seeds. The warm water helped loosen up the kinks brought on by a 16 hour day of either sitting or standing too long. He peeled apart the tightly folded sheet from its mattress mooring and laid back, tucking a pillow behind his damp head. He reached for the remote-on-a-chain and clicked on the TV. He popped a trio of seeds into his mouth while he surfed through the pay-per-view selections, splitting all three seeds apart with one practiced bite, slipping the meat out with a swipe of his tongue. He deposited the remnants into a courtesy cup--ashtrays were outlawed long ago in the state of California.

His warm shower served a second purpose as well--it made the coldness of hotel beds feel pleasant against his skin rather than unwelcoming. A cold bed with no one else to help warm it is what kept him on the couch for so many years after Diana left. He couldn't stand the empty feel of the bed they used to share and gave it away. As years went by, the bedroom became more of a closet space, collecting and filling the vacuum with little slips of paranormal treasure and a pornographic periodical or two. Eliminating the symbol of his solitude made sleeping alone easier to deal with, enjoyable even.

Then the new bed materialized--that ghastly fishbowl of repose. It was so ugly he couldn't help but make himself at home in it. It felt appropriate somehow and plus, it came with a heater. But just as he was adapting to the upgrade in sleep comfort, it too deflated on him like so many halfhearted relationships. So here he was ten years later, back where he started with a perfect plain mattress and box spring set and no one to help warm it. He showered at night at home now as well.

Flip flip flip...even the Spice channel was broadcasting a rerun. He wasn't much in the mood tonight for those antics anyway. He hadn't been for a while, he thought with some concern. It wasn't like him to feel so disinterested in human pleasure. Generally, he relished it, what he could manufacture for himself, anyway. When you're a young man self-pleasure seems like the solution to everything--the world just disappears for ten to fifteen minutes, like hitting pause on the VCR--take yourself out of the play for a few moments and clear your head. Although he'd survived for years on little more than his right hand, his aging sensibilities were yearning for the kind of pleasure only another person could give: a kiss, a murmur, a stroke, a warm sleepy body. He shut off the TV and spit another set of shells onto the cup before turning out the light and rolling over on his side, letting his exposed back cool.

Just like the bed, even Diana had reconstructed her way back into his life. It was strange to see her every now and again at the office, exiting an elevator, or carrying a cup of coffee in the hall. So much had changed; they had traveled so far in such different directions they hardly recognized one another. He didn't know if he could trust her now that their paths were slowly reconnecting. One thing he did know for certain, he thought, hugging the pillow with a faint smile--Scully couldn't stand her. In fact, Scully was suspicious of any woman he became involved with, professionally speaking.

Maybe it was about time he gave her good reason to be suspicious. As much as he had dedicated his life to their regrettably celibate partnership, there comes a time when a man will do just about anything to feel someone's breath on the back of his neck before he falls asleep.

*********************************

Chapter Two: Joshua

*********************************

San Francisco FBI Field Office  
10:30 AM  
Tuesday

"Welcome to San Francisco," Agent Dillmont said, greeting Mulder and Scully in the field office lobby. "I hear you paid a visit to Davies last night? What did you think of our brooding guest artist?"

"Brilliant/Guarded," the two said in quick succession, Scully taking the more flattering adjective.

"But I think he has just cause," Mulder admitted. "An audience is hard to keep when your life being in jeopardy makes front page news."

"I hear there've been a few cancellations for the sold-out gala this weekend. We'll have to see about getting you both some seats. The dinner is worth it, or so I hear. I'll be watching the 'niners."

Mulder nodded and led Scully into the conference room after the young agent. They approached two long tables pushed together. Spread out upon them were clear plastic evidence bags containing lined white paper, napkins, postcards, and other snips and scraps of paper as well as a few torn edges of cardboard.

"I take it this is the complete collection of the threats made against Mr. Segulyev," Scully said.

Agent Dillmont fanned his hand out over the arrangement. "Only what we were able to recover. There are fifteen in all. The ones in the last row were mailed to the San Francisco Symphony Association over the last week. The row above it are the letters found on the Schmidt woman."

Mulder walked to the mid-length of the table and leaned over, carefully reading over the varied writings. "Has the handwriting been analyzed?"

"Yes, this morning. An analyst was flown in from Seattle. She couldn't conclude if all the letters were written by the same person or not. I have a copy of her report if you'd like to see it."

"Yes, if you don't mind," Scully answered. The agent left the room as she came around and selected a particularly verbose letter from the center of the collection. "These messages appear random, but I see from our copies of the Philadelphia letters, certain phrases are repeated."

Mulder leaned further over to read the letter she was holding. Scully's manicured nail traced under the phrases as he read outloud "...you are the one..." "...your life is not your own..." "...stop before we stop you..." "...you are us..." "...see that which you will not see..."

The rest of the letters' contents were random: babblings, confused phrases, and threats of death or violence if demands were not met. Some letters were only a few lines long; others, like the one Scully held, were several paragraphs.

"See how the writing changes from phrase to phrase?" Mulder pointed out, holding up a small ripped cardboard message with the words "...you are us..." written across it in black marker. "The writing is barely legible except for these same repeating phrases, which are written neatly and clearly."

"I noticed that. What do you think it means?"

"Here's the report," Agent Dillmont said, returning and handing Mulder the file. Opening it, Mulder could see the analyst paid special attention to those repeated phrases, too; many were Xeroxed and blown up for a closer look. He took a few minutes to read it before handing the notes off to his partner. He waited for her to digest the information as well.

"It says these letters were all written by different people for the most part," she noted, glancing down at the table. "The bottom two rows match Alice Schmidt's handwriting; the third and fourth rows all match an unidentified person; while the first two rows match possibly three different individuals."

"Read the next page where she takes a closer look at the repetitions," he said, gesturing at Scully to continue.

Mulder watched her flip through the enhancements. "She says the repeating phrases seem to be all written by the same person, in all of the letters. By a right-handed individual. Possibly someone with great dexterity of the hands." She paused and glanced up at him. "I would suppose whoever generated these letters is using a few innocent bystanders to take dictation for him."

Mulder leaned back over the table, staggering three letters over one another so he could see the similar phrases side by side. "Except he can't quite trust this assemblage of belligerents to communicate his most important points? I don't know, Scully. The last time I saw anything this schizophrenic was in an X-File involving free-association writing."

"Free association?"

"It's a therapeutic technique in which the subject is asked to just write anything, any word or phrase that comes to mind--sometimes in response to a keyword or image, sometimes under hypnosis. The idea is to bring out the voice of the subconscious. It's not unusual for subjects to randomly spell out suppressed traumas such as childhood rape. Those recollections often appear to be written in a different hand, almost like the child itself coming back to speak."

"But what we're seeing here is an inverse representation of that phenomena," she pointed out and Mulder nodded his agreement.

"Yes, it's almost as if an older, more sophisticated, voice is breaking through the ramblings of the child."

"Except the free-association in these letters can be attributed to five completely different people."

"Exactly. Which is why I wouldn't rule out dictation at this point, or the theory that our suspect casts weak-minded people as decoys for his attempted assaults against the violinist."

"You might want to rethink that assumption," Agent Dillmont interrupted. "We've just received new evidence regarding Ms. Schmidt. Follow me."

###

Mulder and Scully stood behind Agent Dillmont's chair as he clicked to clear the screen saver from his monitor, bringing up the information. An NCIC dossier filled the screen, showing a mug shot of a much younger Alice with better dental care.

"Alice Schmidt, AKA Jennifer Hyatt, was arrested in 1971 in connection with a series of Army Recruiting Office bombings in the Denver area. She skipped bail and fled out of the state. She's been a fugitive for 28 years."

Dillmont scrolled slowly so the agents could read the charges filed against her and the crime scene summaries and photos.

"I'll be damned," Mulder said quietly. "The woman did know how to plant a bomb."

********************************************

"Joshua...!"

His grandfather was yelling for him. Sitting up, the boy woke and shook the hay off of his face. Frost had gathered under his nose, freezing his scarf to his upper lip. He cupped his numb mittens over his mouth and blew warm air to break the crystals.

"Joshua...!"

Joshua tugged the damp scarf from around his face. "Coming Grandpapa!"

Joshua stood up, stamping the hay and chill from his cold-stiffened legs. Nell, the border collie, barked and got to her feet. She wagged her tail and ran to the ladder to wait for Joshua to carry her down from their nest. The boy took to the ladder and the dog leapt over his arm. He held her over his shoulder until they were low enough for her to jump to the barn floor.

"Where is the boy?" He could hear his grandfather shout from a farther distance. He hadn't heard him.

"Grandpapa!" He yelled excitedly, running to the barn door and hammering upon it with his hands, still too cold to feel the pounding. He waited, but there was only silence. He couldn't hear his grandfather anymore. "Grandpapa!"

There were steps approaching the barn. "Grandpapa?" he asked, quieter. He took a few slow steps back as he heard the iron key slip into the lock. He lowered his head, not wanting to look, as the lock was freed and the barn door slid open a foot, letting in the late morning sun. The dog barked and wagged her tail. Joshua raised his head and squinted into the light.

"Mama?"

She stood there in her long red wool coat, torn at the knee; her hair was out of the bun blowing in the late winter wind. Her voice was small. "Come inside, Joshua, your grandfather is here to see you."

###

Inside, Mama had a big fire going in the fireplace. His papa was sitting in his high-backed chair, staring at his grandfather, who stood by the hearth. They were not speaking. Their faces were still.

"Grandpapa!" Joshua shouted. He ran to him and was lifted into his arms and held against his long gray-black beard. "Sasha, Sasha, where have you been?" he asked in his rich Russian baritone. "I was calling for you."

"He was doing his chores," his papa said from the chair.

His grandfather set him down and brushed the hay from his thick puff of dark curly hair. "It's lesson time, Joshua; go clean up and find your fiddle."

Joshua ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He was so happy to see Grandpapa--it had been weeks since their last lesson. The boy ran down the hall to his small bedroom and reached under the bed, kneeling on the hardwood floor for his violin. He grabbed the small case with both hands since they were still too numb to open, and tossed the case on the narrow mattress while he rubbed off his hat and scarf, shaking the rest of the hay from his hair. He picked up the case and scampered for the stairs, holding it snugly between his arms as he descended.

His father was speaking. "I told you there would be no more lessons. I need the boy to work."

"He can work and have lessons. It is what we agreed, Sergei."

"I agreed to nothing," his father said, staring into the fire.

The boy ran to his grandfather, practically knocking him over with the case. "I have it, Grandpapa!"

"Good boy, now get the music stand..." Joshua turned to trot off again, but his grandfather still had hold of his hand. Joshua didn't feel it and tugged the mitten right off as he tried to move away. In a second his grandfather caught him by the arm and turned him around.

"Joshua, show me your hands," he said in a whispering voice that scared the young boy. His grandfather set the violin case down and carefully pulled off the other mitten, his mouth coming open in shock.

"Mirriam! Get ice, now!"

Joshua didn't understand why his mother began to cry as she ran from the room. "Grandpapa, my fingers are white," he said as his grandfather held them gently in his big reddish hands.

"I said, no more lessons!" His father rose from the chair and took up the violin case. He unlatched it and the child-sized violin came tumbling out onto the floor with a resonating "twong."

"Papa!" Joshua cried, trying to free himself from his grandfather, who lifted him up and carried him to the kitchen table, knocking the empty breakfast bowls out of his way and onto the floor. Over his grandfather's shoulder Joshua could see his father picking up the violin and tossing it like kindling into the blazing fire.

The young boy screamed, aware of nothing but the sight of his beautiful handmade instrument alive with yellow flame. The bridge bent and the strings popped free with a discordant roaring "ping." His mother was crying and holding his hands while his grandfather wrapped a heavy scarf around them, filling the wrappings with scoops of snow.

"You let that man keep your child like an animal, Mirriam...like a horse or cow!" his grandfather was saying to her angrily. "He is not a cow; he is an angel. God will punish you both for the wrong you have done. He'll punish you both!"

###

He was being carried out of the farmhouse. His father was gone, but his mother stood at the doorway crying and crying, her hair catching in her teeth.

Joshua was crying too as his chin thudded against the strong wool-covered shoulder of his grandfather. "My violin, my violin!"

"We will get you a new violin, Sasha. But first we will get you a doctor."

******************************

Marina Flat  
11:30 AM

"Joshua...?"

He was awake, sitting up. His face was half covered, and he pulled the blanket tassels from where they had fallen over him. He was shivering, although it was warm in the single room flat. A generous beam of yellow light fell through the wide windows over where he had been napping on the white linen couch. The front bell chimed.

Joshua swiveled his bare feet to the floor and rubbed his hands together. They were warm and very much alive. A dream. It was just a dream again. He wasn't even sure if that was how it really happened anymore. He straightened the tails of his untucked shirt, brushed the blanket lint from his slacks and stood up.

"I'm coming already!" he yelled to whoever was at the door. Didn't they know these were his rehearsal hours? He was supposed to be left alone, completely alone, every Tuesday through Friday until 6PM.

He opened the door. The agents were back.

"Sorry to disturb you during rehearsal hours, Mr. Segulyev, but we have a development in your case," Agent Scully said by way of greeting.

"Sure, come in," he said dully, stepping back.

"Is this a bad time?" Agent Mulder asked, eyeing him strangely. Joshua wiped at his face. Shit, he'd been crying a little. Wonderful.

"No it's fine. I was just sleeping. If you'll excuse me a moment?"

Joshua walked across the polished wood floor of his San Francisco home. It was a single, long, white-walled open room with a kitchen nook at one end and a bed and dresser shelving set at the other. The north-facing wall was almost entirely glass, rows of panes stretching from floor to ceiling. In the middle of the space were stuffed linen chairs, two couches and a glass coffee table. Up near the windows sat a classic seven-foot Steinway grand piano, hood closed. The Stradivarius sat in its case atop it.

Joshua headed into the bathroom--a small walled square of space in the far corner, almost an afterthought of the architects, who apparently didn't want to mar the open floorplan. He heard Agent Mulder mumble something like "nice set-up" as he turned on the long chrome faucet to splash water on his face. It *was* nice; it was half-a-million-dollars worth of nice. He wiped his face with a towel and stepped back out to deal with the latest speed bump in his career.

"Please, have a seat; take off your coats," he said, gesturing to his ring of furniture. "That is, if I'm correct in assuming we're going to be here for a while."

"We won't be too long," Agent Scully said, removing her overcoat, as did her partner. They did almost everything in sync, he noticed. He flopped back into one of the chairs across from them as they took seats at opposite ends of the same couch.

Agent Mulder reached into his coat pocket, extracting a small photo. "We want to know if you can identify this woman," he said, passing it to Joshua.

Joshua reached over and took it from him, resting his bare heels against the edge of the coffee table. It was a mug shot of an old toothless woman. He shook his head. "Nope. Sorry. Am I supposed to know her?"

Scully took the photo as he handed it back. "This is Alice Schmidt, an alias for Jennifer Hyatt, a known arsonist and domestic terrorist. She was the suspect arrested in Philadelphia for the Performing Arts Center incident."

Joshua nodded, relieved. "Good, so they caught the right one after all."

"It's not that simple," Agent Mulder added, leaning forward. "Our handwriting analysis indicates she most likely wasn't working alone. We believe someone is either hiring or coercing people like Alice to carry out these threats on you. Do you know anyone who would try to make such an elaborate attempt to get your attention?"

"Attention? I thought this person was just a nut who wanted me to go away, leave the stage."

"The behavior this unidentified suspect is exhibiting indicates a need for recognition, attention from you," Mulder explained. "It's classic obsessive behavior--like fans who stalk celebrities. They believe they have an actual relationship with the object of their obsession. After some time they find seeing the celebrity perform is no longer enough to feed their fantasies; they need more. Some begin by writing letters, or visiting the performer's home. We're wondering if you had any unusual incidents with fans, say about the time the letters began?"

Joshua thought it over. "Nothing that I can remember. I'm not exactly a rock star, you know. I get mostly retired people and younger kids. The 20-40 age group tends to avoid my art...regrettably," he added with a wry grin.

"Did you have any friendships or acquaintances end around that time?" Agent Scully asked.

Joshua was struck with a cold thought. He turned away, thinking.

"Mr. Segulyev?"

He glanced back, "Please, just Joshua. And it's odd you should say that. I broke off a year-long engagement about eight months ago, just after my father's funeral, but I hardly think she's a threat."

"You were engaged to be married?" Agent Scully clarified.

Joshua rubbed the side of his face with his hand. "Yes."

"Was the split amicable?" Agent Mulder asked.

Joshua sighed. "No, it wasn't. Not by a long shot. But I really don't see how..."

"We'll need to follow up on it just the same. What is her name and place of residence?" asked Agent Scully, pulling out a pen.

"I really wish you wouldn't. I'm sorry I brought it up."

"More lives than your own are being put in jeopardy, Joshua. We just want her to make a statement regarding her whereabouts."

"What happened?" Agent Mulder asked gently. His partner turned slightly, seemingly puzzled by his interest.

"What happened to the engagement?"

The older man nodded.

It took a moment for Joshua to find an answer. He'd never really put it fully into words before. Maybe it was time he did.

"I...realized something about myself after I came back from the farm. That there was really no desire in me at all to be married or to have a family. Going back home reminded me of everything I despised about my parents, all the pain and misunderstanding. I realized I had no idea why I was engaged at all. I wasn't in love with her, at least not anymore. Besides, who wants to live with someone who plays the violin six hours a day?"

Agent Mulder gave him a sympathetic nod. "Still, I think we'd better get her name. If nothing else, than to eliminate one of your middle range-aged fans."

*********************************

Chapter Three: Spooks

*********************************

Davies Symphony Hall  
5:45 PM

Joshua left rehearsal a little early. The Symphony was working the Beethoven One for an extra half hour tonight and he'd not had the opportunity to call for the car. Later, he'd acknowledge this wasn't the smartest decision of his life, to take off into the dusk of an early San Francisco evening with a priceless Stradivarius in its case under his arm. In fact, it was goddamned stupid, but he wasn't in the most reasonable of moods. The circulating rumors of the threat on his head were not only giving his booking agents serious headaches, it was making it harder for him to completely lose himself in the Mendelssohn. Usually the music came easily, the tempo and flow almost subconscious. Tonight, his rehearsal had felt forced to him, as if he was standing outside of himself working his bow like a marionette.

He was angry with himself and anger will sometimes lead to self-castigation. In the case of a man who'd spent most of his traveling hours in the back of a private bus or car, this meant walking the mile or so back to his Marina flat, alone.

The night was deepening with the wind coming in cold and whispery. He flipped the collar up on his coat and kept on ahead, walking past the warm-lit bistros and pubs of Civic Center. People were seated at cloth-covered tables, getting on with a nice dinner in candlelight glow before trotting off to the opera or ballet. It was his custom, when rehearsal broke early, to stop in for a bite and call for the car; but food was not something he felt like indulging in tonight. The tug of hunger and the cold air against his face was welcoming to him.

"Music is life," his grandfather would say, when money was scarce and the evening meal bland. Grandfather peeled away as little of his savings as he could month by month to keep Joshua in Philadelphia's Conservatory of Music for professional training--the most prestigious music school for violinists in the nation. Joshua could recall entire weeks of oxtail soup and canned brown bread. Heat was a luxury they couldn't always afford. "With music the soul is fat and the heart warm," Grandpapa would say, as he sat by the window in his leather chair with a shot of vodka, watching the snow fall.

"Play us something."

Joshua would take out the violin and play to the dark paneled walls of their narrow apartment, pacing back and forth along the thin green rug to keep warm.

Looking up from his recollections, Joshua realized he had traveled several blocks on autopilot. He'd clearly stepped beyond the refined edges of the Civic Center district and had headed into a less favorable neighborhood. This street in particular was accented with a selection of human vagrancy. Urine and garbage settled into the corners and doorways of closed businesses. There were messages: "Hungry...Paralyzed Vet...Momma didn't love me...Why Lie to You? It's for Beer." He flipped the beer man a few quarters and walked on, keeping to himself.

He crossed to a less occupied street of mostly industrial buildings. Just a few more blocks of this dilapidation and he'd be onto the populated well-lit strip of Divisadero where he could head north to the Marina. He wasn't particularly unnerved by the empty blocks of cage-barred windows and corrugated steel doors decked in graffiti, until he heard someone behind him say his name.

He whipped around. Across the road a paint can rolled off the curb and clanked into the street, rolling to a stop against the front tire of an abandoned pickup.

"Someone there?" he called out.

No reply. The wind was blowing through the alley, making the empty spaces whisper falsehoods in his ear, he decided, turning to resume his path.

A man was standing in the road.

Joshua started. There had been no one there a second ago. "Hello?" he said to the tall figure as it stood motionless in the center of the road. "Did you say something?"

The figure looked thin, painfully thin, an old man in a long black felt coat. His long wiry gray beard and gnarled hair hung lank, missing in parts, showing his bare scalp. Joshua decided there was nothing to fear from this gaunt man and began forward to pass him briskly to the right. He tried not to make eye contact as he drew closer, but in the corner of his eye he could see the man's gaze following him. Like the wind, the man was standing directly in front of him on the sidewalk not ten feet away, smiling. Joshua could see the lines of the man's skull poking through the paper-thin grayish skin.

Joshua gasped in shock and hurried to his right into a maze of alleys. He had no idea how the man could have moved that fast in his emaciated condition, and hoped he wasn't being followed as he briskly half-jogged past rusted fire escapes and dumpsters between the tight buildings. A short while later, he turned, looking over his shoulder. He could no longer see the thin man.

In a few blocks, Joshua came out onto a well-lit street. He rushed forward until he was immersed back into the mixed company of sidewalk traffic to try and calm himself. Shit, that was stupid, he thought, hugging the case and moving forward toward the busy intersection ahead. He was turned around and didn't know which street he was on. He stopped at the corner and looked up. Divisadero. Home to Anne Rice's vampires as well as his aging mother. He stood directly across the street from the light-blue siding and bay windows of the two story home he shared with his grandfather for three years until his nineteenth birthday when his European tour began. He blinked and looked up at the street sign again. He didn't understand how he could have come this far north so fast. It didn't make any sense at all.

At age sixteen, after the lean years in Philadelphia, Joshua was awarded a scholarship and stipend to come to the San Francisco Conservatory and study under violin master Gregory Ferras for a few years. The money and the concerts Joshua performed regularly paid for a much nicer house--two stories and a comfortable parlor, no more wishing for heat. After the tour, his grandfather had elected to stay in this city until the day he died, almost two years ago. Joshua hadn't been able to see his grandfather more than two or three times a year for brief visits. Once he had gone international, his career blossomed and travel was a regular necessity. Seeing the house made him grieve a little all over again.

Joshua caught his breath as he stood under the streetlight, letting pedestrians brush past as he fought with the decision of whether or not to cross the street to ring the damn bell and just get this over with. He hadn't seen his mother since his father's funeral eight months ago. She moved here to stay in her father's old house while Joshua had returned to New York. Did she even know he was back? Did she ever read the arts section? Had she ever read about any of his performances?

Upstairs, he could see the center window was lit. He almost took a step forward, then decided he'd call her after the gala. There'd still be time to get her a ticket to one of his performances if she happened to ask. He turned and walked back up Divisadero to the nearest cafe to call his driver. The guilt was settling in his bones, but he shoved it aside.

"Goddammit, I *earned* this, Mama," he said silently to the strangers who passed him as he headed into Tibbit's Cafe to make the call.

*******************************

Marriott Hotel  
4th and Mission  
8:30 PM

Mulder pushed back from the desk when he heard shuffling in the hall. The door across the way clicked open, then shut. She was back. He got up and opened his door and looked out. Taking his card key, he crossed the hall to tap on her door. "Scully?"

"Yes. Hold on." It took her a minute to get to the door. She opened it a crack. "Yes, Mulder?"

"Um," Mulder craned his head to get a look at her. She'd removed her suit jacket and was standing barefoot in her slacks and snug-fit shell. "Did you have dinner yet? I was going..."

"Yes, I ate. Was there something you wanted to discuss?"

Her tone wasn't unpleasant, just business. Still, it made him feel hollow. He'd hoped they'd share a meal tonight at least. Scully had been off most the day with Dillmont, cross-checking possible suspects for a Philadelphia and San Francisco connection while he'd been doing a little boning up on the spirit world.

"Can I come in?"

She looked aside a second as if she were trying to find a way out of it, but stepped back and opened the door to him with a small nod.

She set herself to the task of unfolding and hanging up her suits while Mulder stood in the center of the room, crossed his arms and began to share his long day with her.

"...I found that nearly every major European and Slavic country has some folk myth related to the trickster spirit--a bodiless soul that exists for thousands of years, drifting until it takes hold of a particular individual and raises havoc. There's an old Baba Yaga tale about a ten-thousand-year-old man locked in a closet by the witch until a young prince happens by her hut on chicken legs..."

Mulder kept on relating the Russian fairytale, all too aware that Scully wasn't giving his story the least bit of attention. It made him want to take her by the arm and ask her what the hell was going on. When did she stop giving a damn about him? As wild as his theories could be sometimes, she used to at least hear him out. They hadn't shared a decent dual-perspective argument in months. Couldn't she understand by now that he didn't expect her to believe, just to listen?

After a few minutes he just stopped talking. He was beginning to bore himself. Eventually she noticed and looked up at him, zipping her emptied bag shut.

"I don't know Mulder; spooks are your business. I'm here to stop a terrorist."

"Scully, I don't get it," he said, defeatedly. "I thought you were thrilled to be off conventional investigations and background checks for a while. We have the opportunity to investigate something highly unusual here and I think we need to observe it from all angles."

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, not sounding one bit sorry. "I just don't see the point."

Mulder held her gaze a moment until she dropped her eyes and turned away.

"We have tickets to the gala this Friday, courtesy of Joshua's manager, Nanette. You'll need to find a tux if you want to go."

"And a date," he said a little coldly. She flipped her head up to say something back to him.

A cellphone began to ring.

Scully blinked the response she was going to make away and reached for the bed, fishing the phone from her coat pocket. "Scully."

She turned and held up her hand to make Mulder stay. She looked pensive. "Okay...thank you; we're on our way.

"That was Lieutenant Jarvis. He's at Davies Medical Center. Joshua's been stabbed."

****************************

Davies Medical Center  
9:30 PM

Mulder stood just outside the double doors to the ER, waiting while Scully finished speaking to the admitting nurse about Joshua's condition.

"Thank you. Let us know when we can talk to him." The nurse nodded and walked back through the double doors.

"Is it bad?" Mulder asked in response to her stoic expression.

"No, he'll be fine. Most of the cuts are superficial, defensive wounds, but the assailant caught him pretty hard in the side. That's the main laceration they're concerned about. They're suturing him right now."

"Any word on how this happened?"

"I think we should ask Lieutenant Jarvis," she said, indicating that he should turn and look behind him. "He just walked in."

Lt. Jarvis worked his way through the ER waiting-room-wounded to greet the agents. Jarvis was bit of the Old West preserved in a barrel chest and a short, neat, handlebar mustache. Mulder hadn't seen one of those since they'd taken a case three years ago in Amarillo.

"I suppose you're wondering who skewered our fiddle boy," the middle-aged man said in a deep rolling voice.

"Yes," Mulder said. "Are there any suspects?"

"Yup. We got 'im. I just came back from the call. Old smelly fella, a vagrant. Witnesses saw him fleeing the scene. Wasn't hard to catch up with the old drunk. We got the knife off him, too. We can shut the door on this case, nice and tidy."

"Where was Mr. Segulyev attacked?" Scully asked.

"Just outside his own front door. He's got a covered entry hall. We think the old man decided to take a nap in there, seeing it's such a nice neighborhood and all. Seguulg...the boy must have surprised him."

"Where's the suspect being held? I'd like your permission to question him," Mulder said, noticing a nurse beginning to wave at them. They could go on in now.

"Hall of Justice, third floor. Come on by and have some doughnuts," he laughed roughly. "Go on in and see the boy; he's had enough of me already tonight. Oh, and take this shot along." He handed Mulder a small black and white mugshot along with a short stack of decoys. "See if he can identify him. The name's Jim Harris. He's been in the can a few times for poking folks with sharp objects. This is just the first time he's tried for someone famous."

Mulder took the photos and followed Scully into the ER.

*****************

"I'm having the worst day," Joshua said to Mulder from his narrow hospital bed. "They cut up my favorite pants," he added sarcastically, pointing to the little take home bag of abused clothing at his feet.

"I can see that," Mulder smiled back and dragged a chair closer to Joshua's bedside, taking a seat. "SFPD has a suspect in custody; would you like to see if you can pick him out of these photos?"

"Sure. But I'll tell you it was pretty dark. My light was out. Bastard jumped me before I knew what hit me. I'm glad they got him."

Mulder began to set the photos out across the blanket covering the musician's lap. Joshua had a few large band-aids on his right arm, and a larger dressing collecting a thin line of blood on his left side. "The doctor tells me I can still play the violin," he joked, noticing Mulder's visual damage assessment.

"Did you tell him, 'Good, because I never played it before?'"

Joshua gave a nervous laugh, then stopped when it clearly hurt his side. "Congratulations, you win the prize for being the first person to 'get' that joke tonight, Agent Mulder."

Joshua seemed to be taking this whole thing rather well. A little too well, perhaps. His sardonic mood suggested to Mulder that he was compensating for something. "Take a look..."

Joshua shifted higher to survey the photos. He seemed like he was about to shake his head, then he suddenly picked up the photo of Harris.

"Does that one seem familiar?"

"Yes...but I..." He squinted at it for a few moments, thinking. "Wait, I know, I gave this man some spare change earlier this evening a few blocks from Civic Center. Is this the guy who knifed me?"

"It would appear so."

"Damn, did that guy follow me? No...he couldn't have. I took the car from Divisadero. Shit, I live almost two miles from where I saw this man."

Mulder gave Joshua a few moments to figure things out in his head. He turned back to Mulder looking a bit guilty. "I did a really stupid thing tonight."

"What?"

"I decided to walk back alone to my flat from Davies after dusk."

Mulder's eyes widened in mild surprise.

"I know, I'm aware how idiotic that was. What I wasn't expecting was to be assaulted at my own front door. You don't think this is related to the threats on my life, do you? I mean, this guy was just a bum on the wrong doorstep."

"Honestly, I don't think it was a coincidence given the lifestyle of our Philadelphia suspect. I don't think you do either."

Joshua made to say something in argument and then just fell still, glancing aside. Mulder was right, there was something he was hiding.

"I think it's reasonable to say at this point, until we stop whoever is threatening you, that just about anyone on the streets of San Francisco could be a suspect. Not to mention the fact they know where you live. I'd like to post a 24-hour guard on you, just to be safe."

Joshua regarded him for a moment, thinking it over, then nodded his consent.

*********************

"Look, I got a whole city to protect. You boys from D.C. can figure that one out," Lt. Jarvis said in reply to Mulder's request for a guard rotation for Joshua. As far as the handlebars were concerned, this case was closed. Mulder watched the man shuffle out of the waiting room back toward the parking lot.

Scully emerged from her chat with Joshua's physician. "I take it you're not getting a lot of cooperation from local law enforcement concerning the continuation of this case."

Mulder looked down at her. "Nope. I hope you like mornings--care for the 4AM shift?"

She didn't answer that, but instead gave him the update on Joshua's treatment. The doctor had given the musician a Tetanus shot and a dose of antibiotics for good measure. Then her expression changed.

"Oh, and Mulder, we've eliminated the ex-fiancee as a suspect," she said solemnly, handing him a fax from the NY field office.

Mulder looked down and read the fax in front of him. He sighed. "I'll go tell him," he said, and walked back into the ER.

###

"You didn't know?"

Joshua turned his head away from Mulder, looking even more pale than when he was brought in. Mulder knew it wasn't the best time. But there wasn't likely to ever be a best time for this kind of news.

"No," he said in nearly a whisper. "I had no idea...three months ago?"

"The gunshot wound was self-inflicted. There was a brief investigation. No other explanations could be found."

"Shit." The man had turned over away from him, trying to bury his face in the pillow. "Shit shit shit..." he said brokenly, beginning to release a choked sob.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Mulder said, starting to stand; then something in him made him want to stay and just be there for the man. He sat back down on the edge of the chair with his eyes on the far wall, listening to the quiet intermittent sobs coming from the musician.

"'You never play for me,' she'd always say," he said between hitches of his chest. "And she was right, I never did. I always played for myself." He rolled over and looked up at Mulder. "Why couldn't I play for her?" he asked of him.

Mulder just shook his head.

Joshua breathed steadily and they caught each other's eyes. Mulder felt something from this distressed man, something familiar, painfully familiar. Joshua closed his eyes and turned his face back to the pillow. "Thank you, but I'd like to be alone now," he said softly. Mulder stood and walked out of the room, leaving him to his grief. For Joshua Segulyev, today was indeed not the best of days. Mulder went to tell Scully he would take the first watch over the musician tonight.

****************************

Marina Flat  
1:30 AM  
Wednesday

Joshua's eyes were a rather surprising shade of indigo. Mulder had noticed their unusual color for the first time earlier tonight when they were rimmed with tears. He wondered now why he kept trying to catch them again.

Joshua was standing between the piano and the window, playing the violin, slowly, something low and sad and easy. He hadn't said much to Mulder on the ride home from the hospital. Whatever tears he needed to shed, he seemed to have finished. The violin under his chin was telling the story now in long sobbing notes and dual string chords.

Mulder sat in one of the chairs pretending to read a magazine. After another minute or so Joshua just stopped and let the violin hang at his side.

"It's beautiful. What is it?"

"Schubert, Death and the Maiden," he answered slowly. "It sounds less lonely with the rest of the quartet."

Mulder didn't know what to say to that.

"Will you stay awake all night?" Joshua asked, still staring out the window to the black silk wrap of the Bay flowing four stories below.

"Yes."

"Then I think I'll sleep now."

*****************************

Hall of Justice  
12:30 PM

Mulder stood above, watching the interview through the silver-blue, high-tech, one-way viewing panel into the pen below. The Hall of Justice had been recently reconstructed and dubbed the "glamour slammer." It was an expensive feat of San Franciscan engineering that had city voters howling. They didn't seem to agree with the local commission officials that criminals deserved such swank accommodations.

Mulder could easily see why. Harris was lolling in his chair across from two of Jarvis' men. They had a yellow legal pad sitting on the table in front of him and a fat dull-tipped construction pencil. A confession was likely; all the disheveled man wanted was a drink.

Mulder heard the observation door open and Scully came in to stand next to him.

"Dillmont show up for the Symphony on time?" Mulder asked. Necessity had dictated their shifts--Mulder had 8PM to 4AM, followed by Scully, who turned over the victim watch to Dillmont at noon sharp so he and Scully could work from midday until 8PM together.

"Yes, but he wasn't too happy about it. I think the man has something against Davies' plush velvet seats." Mulder grinned a bit; she seemed in a better mood today.

"How was your shift? Joshua feeling better?"

"He has some pain in his left side, but it didn't keep him from rehearsing this morning. Eight AM sharp he was up, dressed, bow in hand. He's quite amazing."

"So you say," Mulder teased, glancing down at the interview-in-progress. "They're not getting too far with this guy. Three douses with the hose and he still stinks up the room. I don't understand how any nefarious individual could stay close long enough to impart any influence on him... Is Joshua coming in today to make the ID?"

Scully glanced at her watch. "He should be here in about 10 minutes. He said he'd head over during the Symphony's lunch break."

Mulder acknowledged the time and took a step closer to the glass when Lt. Jarvis made his entrance from the hallway door. "Agents," he said in greeting, coming up to address Mulder. "Still trying to make this square peg fit the round hole I see."

Mulder turned to face the older man. "I'd like to have his handwriting analyzed. We have several older letters left to identify..."

The mustache was twitching as Jarvis interrupted him. "Son, this ol' drunk can't even hold the pencil to make a confession. I know you're new in this town, so I'll give you some slack, but I've had this man in the can more times than I can count. He's a boozer and nothing much else. He's certainly a far cry from your cross-state, terrorizing, bomb-planting lunatic. You're sniffing around the wrong bush."

Mulder tried to keep his patient face on as he attempted to explain. "It's my opinion that our UNSUB is using local vagrants as decoys for his attempts on the musician's life. The Philadelphia suspect was also homeless. All we have to link the decoys together are the handwriting samples. If Harris doesn't match any we already have, I want him analyzed through free association therapy by a board certified psychologist."

Jarvis snorted good-naturedly like he was dealing with a confused child. "A shrink? What this man needs is a week in detox. And until you can find us some evidence linking him to your case, he remains under my lock and key. You're gonna have to dig a little deeper than that, son." Jarvis tipped his forehead at Scully in parting and exited the observation deck.

Mulder planted his foot and looked up at the ceiling with annoyance. "Where's a decent homicide detective when you need one? Who'd we work with last time during the quake? Detective Meyer?"

"You're forgetting, Mulder, we don't have any bodies yet."

"Except for the fiancee." Scully gave him a quizzical look. "She had family, didn't she? I wouldn't be too surprised if someone was looking to blame Joshua for her suicide."

"You may have a point, but I'm afraid I'll have to take Jarvis' side regarding Mr. Harris. I've reviewed his prison medical records. The man is suffering from advanced cirrhosis and abnormal brain function brought on by chronic alcoholism. No offense to Joshua, but I find it hard to believe Harris had the strength to even stand, let alone attack a physically fit 29-year-old man."

The hall door creaked open once more, and an officer leaned in. "Agents, Mr. Segulyev is here for the ID."

***************************************

"That's him," Joshua said, pointing to the gray-haired shabby man third from the left. Harris. Joshua flexed his arm. The cuts were healing fast, but the stitched wound in his left side was causing him some pain this afternoon. He'd certainly like his two quarters back about now.

Mulder noted the ID and handed the paperwork off to the officers. "Do you think you can remember where you last saw this man?"

Joshua nodded as they exited the darkened room. "I think so."

***************************************

"Start us off at Davies," Joshua suggested, shifting to take the weight off his side in the passenger's seat while Mulder drove them to retrace his path. "I can't recall the exact street."

"Joshua," Scully said from the backseat. "Did your doctor give you something for the pain?"

Joshua glanced back at her. "Yes he did, but I can't take that stuff during the day. It makes my head swim. The pain's not too bad; it keeps me alert."

Mulder slowed the car as they turned up Hayes past the stage door entrance. "Go straight a few blocks," Joshua said, pointing ahead.

"I saw the Chronicle picked up your assault this morning," Mulder said as they waited at a red light.

Joshua sighed. "I saw that too. Fortunately, it was buried at the bottom of page 12. The news has pretty much spread through the orchestra--it's hard to hide my injuries--but I don't think too many folks are aware of the Philadelphia case here yet. If you can keep these bums off me for a few weeks I might have a decent shot at another 10 country tour starting in the new year."

"Really? How wonderful," Scully said from the back as Mulder pulled ahead onto the next street.

"Thank you. We're still waiting on the confirmation call from Vienna. My agents have been negotiating this deal for almost two months. It didn't look likely until one of their scheduled soloists became pregnant recently."

"How fortunate for you," Mulder replied.

Joshua remained hopeful. "I'd dearly love to get out of this country for a good long while. Maybe then this idiot will find another hobby in my absence."

It took them a few minutes and some backtracking to find the right street. Joshua couldn't help but relive a chill of dread when they reached the block where, just the night before, he had walked past the seemingly harmless, sleeping homeless.

Mulder parked the car. "Let's check this out."

All three exited the car and crossed the street. Mulder and Scully followed Joshua into the gray stone archways of a boarded-up antiquated office building. Tucked in the arches were bags and rolls of clothing and papers and other clutter, infused with the unmistakable smell of human waste. Whoever occupied this residence was out for the day.

Joshua watched Mulder and his partner snap on rubber gloves and begin to pick through the piles of debris. Mulder pulled aside a tattered blanket, some newspapers, and a paper bag that fell open, spewing an assortment of emptied Jack Daniels bottles out onto the concrete. "I think it's safe to say Harris slept here," Mulder said, standing and taking a step farther into the dark narrow alcove beyond the stone archway. He pulled out a penlight and began shining it over the stone surface.

Joshua poked at an overturned cardboard box with his foot. A fat happy cockroach skittered out and he jumped a little. Under the box was part of a sign. He dragged it out with his heel. "Why lie? It's for beer."

"What's that?" Scully asked, coming up behind him. She bent down to pick up the cardboard.

"That's his sign," Joshua said, identifying it.

"Mulder, we may have a handwriting sample for you," she called out to her partner who had slipped out of view.

Mulder's reply echoed through the arch. "I've got one, too, in what looks like charcoal scratched on the stones back here. Can you get the digital camera out of the trunk, Scully?"

A few minutes later the digicam picked up a partially smeared message: "...we have found you...you are the one..."

"Does this message mean anything to you? It appears in almost all the letters," Mulder asked Joshua as he handed the penlight over for him to step in and take a peek at the far wall. The message was crude, but readable. It looked like someone had used the end of a burnt stick to spell it out. Joshua held his breath against the stench as he picked his way back out, careful not to step in anything sticky.

"I don't have a clue as to what it's supposed to mean," Joshua said, returning the flashlight. "But I do have a question. If it's only one person masterminding these threats, then why are all the letters announcing themselves as 'we'?"

"That's a very good question," Mulder acknowledged. "Often obsessive suspects will identify themselves in the plural to give the impression of belonging to a larger, more threatening group. Ninety percent of these cases wind up being the actions of an individual, however. Right now I'm operating under that assumption."

"I see," Joshua said, glancing away again, thinking.

Mulder touched Joshua's arm to get his attention. "Joshua, if there's something you're afraid to tell me, I wish you wouldn't hold back. We only want to help keep you safe."

Joshua crossed his arms and studied the agent's face. Mulder's eyes were not only beautiful, but kind. He sensed patience in the man--a level of tolerance and understanding uncommon to most of the male gender. Joshua chewed his lip a moment and confessed.

"I saw something else that night," he began, checking Mulder's reaction. The agent looked as if he wasn't surprised at all.

"Go on," he encouraged.

"After I left this street I went one more block west. I saw this man--a thin man. He was standing in the road, smiling at me. And I tried to pass him..." Joshua hesitated. "You're going to think this is crazy."

Mulder took a step closer and shook his head gently. "I won't, Joshua, trust me."

"Well, it was like he flew at me, for lack of a better word. His feet...I didn't hear him walking...he moved so fast and he was standing in front of me again and I just panicked. I ran into the closest alley until I got out of there. I didn't even know where I was going."

"Can you describe him?"

"I...I don't know. Maybe."

"I want you to describe the man to a police sketch artist later tonight after your rehearsal. It was good you told me this, Joshua. It will help us a great deal."

Joshua let out a sigh of relief. "Do you think we can head back to Davies now? I don't want to be late."

Mulder gave him a reassuring nod. "Sure. Let's get going."

*********************************

Chapter Four: Messages

*********************************

Marina Flat  
8:00 PM

"For Chrissake! It's open!"

Mulder could hear a good deal of racket coming from inside Joshua's apartment. It sounded like he was entertaining a crowd and not enjoying it one bit. Mulder turned the knob and poked his head in cautiously.

Agent Dillmont was seated in a chair to the left of the door. He had a newspaper in his lap and earphones on, tinnily broadcasting a football game. He seemed oblivious to the ruckus taking place in the center of the open room. There was a total of six people in the flat including Mulder. The majority of them were pacing after Joshua who held the lead, violin and bow in hand, trying to wave them off as his stereo flooded the room with the sounds of a full symphony orchestra in climactic crescendo.

"Nana, I *told* you I made a promise to Grandpapa," he said, exasperated, setting the violin atop the piano and tapping the back of his bow in the palm of his hand like a petulant conductor.

"Joshua, my darling, you can't be so particular. These gentlemen only have your best interests at heart."

Joshua looked down at his personal manager with a frustrated patience. She was a diminutive, gray-haired lady with a pointed nose and delicate French accent. "Nana, a promise is a promise." He raised his head to address the "gentlemen." "As you all know, I have particular restrictions regarding my tour routes. The Vienna Philharmonic *knows* this. I trust you will navigate through these negotiations with proper sensitivity to my express wishes."

The gentlemen nodded in a bundle of mumbled affirmatives, and with brisk good-byes, turned to make their way out. Mulder stepped aside as they filed their way out of the door. The orchestra hit its closing notes and the stereo fell silent.

Joshua was still talking with his personal manager, his hand on her shoulder. He was saying something about his fan mail.

"I need you to forward all of my personal mail *unopened* to the San Francisco FBI, okay?"

"But Joshua, they don't need to read everything..."

He set his bow down and gave the small woman a reassuring hug. "Nana, they only want to help me. You need to cooperate with them, all right?" The woman patted his arm and reached up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek.

"I will do whatever you ask, my darling," she said and buttoned up her coat. She gave Mulder a close-lipped smile as she made her way out the door after the men.

Joshua took a breath and made eye contact with the newly arrived agent. "Mulder, welcome. Take a number and have a seat. I'll be with you shortly," he quipped, re-shouldering his violin and hitting 'play' on the stereo, once more bringing the music to life. He began to walk to the far end of the room, playing his solo part along with the CD.

Mulder took the opportunity to shut and lock the door, and tapped Dillmont on the shoulder. The younger man jumped at the touch--keeping vigilant, certainly. "You're free to go."

Dillmont squinted up at him, lifting an earphone. "What?"

"Shift's over, you're outta here. Who's winning?"

"Dallas, by two field goals."

Mulder gave him a nod. "Did you take Joshua over to the station after rehearsal?"

"Yes, you want to see the results?" Dillmont pulled a copy of the police sketch from his jacket pocket. Mulder held it up in the light and noted the emaciated face. This man had certainly seen better days.

"No suspect matches?"

Dillmont shook his head and gathered himself to leave. "No one's ever seen the man before in this city as far as the SFPD can tell you."

Dillmont made his exit and Mulder re-locked the door after him and took his chair. He picked up the discarded newspaper and read the front page, listening to Joshua play.

###

Now that it was quiet, Joshua kept his full concentration on the Mendelssohn finale--he was insistent on getting through it from beginning to end without interruption at least once tonight. His private rehearsal time had been cut short by the police station visit earlier this evening. He had returned home with Dillmont at 6 PM to find the hounds waiting at the door. He was positively famished for dinner, having spent lunch identifying Harris and digging through his trash. But he had elected to wait until Agent Mulder came on shift before heading out to dine. Dillmont was not fun company and seemed rather irritated he'd been called in to baby-sit in the first place. Mulder, however, was beginning to present himself to Joshua as a rather interesting individual. Joshua had been curious about the agent since he'd confessed to his eerie encounter with the thin man. Joshua was looking forward to sharing some conversation in lieu of what usually amounted to solo dining.

"Well, at least today is showing some improvements over yesterday," he said aloud to the man seated at the other end of the long room.

"I'm sorry? Didn't catch that."

Joshua clicked the stereo's power off with his toe. "I said, so far today has been better than yesterday." In his head, the five measure rest concluded and he resumed his part at letter P. It was a tricky piece, but Joshua could play it and still hold a conversation. "Come move out of the corner and make yourself at home."

Mulder stood up and took a closer seat on the couch in the center of the room.

"You don't have to turn the music off on my account," Mulder told him earnestly.

Joshua smiled. "That's okay, I can hear them playing perfectly well in my head. I just run the back-up to irritate Dillmont. He's not as dedicated to my preservation as you and Agent Scully are."

"I'll have to talk to him about that," Mulder said, indicating his annoyance. "Scully's a much better audience. She knows something about classical music; she'd heard of you before we took this case."

"Really? I didn't know that. She hasn't said too much. She's quiet, but polite. I like her."

Mulder looked at him as if he found something humorous in that comment. Then he let it pass. "You'd both probably find a lot to talk about."

Joshua made a small grin and continued with his solo, taking a step away and concentrating fully on it until its conclusion. He then elected to skip the final bars of the movement and silenced the soundtrack running in his head, letting the violin hang loosely at his side. "She probably won't get much of a chance unless she switches shifts with you. You picked 'Joshua's social hours,' such as they are. So I guess I'm going to have to educate you."

Mulder looked intrigued. "Educate me?"

"On the finer forms of music, so we'll have something to talk about during dinner."

Mulder shrugged. "Sure. I'm a fairly fast learner."

"Great, here's lesson one." Joshua set his bow down long enough to pick out a CD and set it in the stereo. He set it to play and flipped the empty jewel case in Mulder's direction. Mulder caught it and held it just as the strings began to double-bow the opening sustained chord. Joshua lifted his bow and joined the lead violins for the first several bars into the first crescendo where the trumpets caught up with them. "Know this one?"

Mulder raised a brow. "Of course, Beethoven's Ninth."

"Excellent. You already know more than Dillmont. He thought Beethoven was a character from Peanuts."

Mulder chuckled. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

"Beethoven's Ninth was the ailing composer's final finished symphony," Joshua instructed, strolling back and forth along the wall of windows, carrying his part along with the rest of the orchestra. "It is universally recognized as being the greatest musical work ever composed. Since Beethoven's death, no composer has ever written any greater than eight symphonies..." He paused for drama as the orchestra quieted and repeated the opening chords pitched in a new key,"...out of respect."

Mulder made an impressed expression.

"Open the CD case," Joshua continued, as the brass and timpani thundered in their parts. The agent did, looking down at the empty ring left by the absent CD. "A compact disc is just over four and a half inches in diameter and holds a maximum 78 minutes worth of digital audio information. Do you know why Sony manufacturers chose such an odd number?"

Mulder shook his head.

"On average, adjusting for interpretation of tempo, the Ninth Symphony runs 78 minutes in length from opening Allegro to final Chorale. It is the only orchestral piece performed strictly by itself--no intermissions, no opening overtures. Sony saw to it that the Ninth would fit on one CD, no more, no less."

"I didn't realize that."

"Something you also may not realize is the fact Beethoven wrote this masterpiece while he was stone cold deaf." The oboes kicked in, playing an eerie death march as Joshua assisted in bringing the violins back into the Allegro's angry refrain. "He never heard a note of it, except in his head."

"That's always puzzled me," Mulder admitted. "If Beethoven was deaf, how did he learn to compose music?"

Joshua's expression turned grim. "He wasn't always deaf. He went slowly deaf over a period of several years. I can't imagine anything more horrifying to a musician--to have your whole world slowly begin to close up on you. But instead of despairing, he wrote this."

"The human spirit is an amazing thing," Mulder commented.

Joshua nodded and turned the stereo off with the tip of his bow. "You can't help but be awed by the man. He even had the balls to stand up and conduct the premiere performance."

"How on earth did he manage that?"

Joshua smiled with deep affection for the deceased composer. "He followed the bows of the first violins. He was an incredibly stubborn man. Beethoven blamed his failing ears on the disciplinary blows to the head his father gave him as a child. When they exhumed and autopsied his body some years later they discovered he had suffered from what today would have been a treatable form of tinnitus."

"Is he your favorite composer?" Mulder asked.

Joshua's eyes lit up and he began to play something dramatic and bold. "No, but he runs a close second to the man who carried on his style....Name that tune, Agent Mulder."

"I think...Scully was playing that. Is it Brahms?"

Joshua grinned and kept on playing, throwing his shoulder into it, perhaps showing off a bit. "The first time I ever saw a portrait of Johannes Brahms I mistook him for my grandfather. I jumped up and down in this neighboring farmhouse telling everyone that was my Grandpapa up on the wall over the piano. The woman, I forget her name, tapped me on the shoulder and told me I was a little off. Brahms was German, you know, but with that long dark beard it's hard to tell the detailed features of a face. I didn't believe her; instead I believed they were the same man. I thought my grandfather was a composer for many years growing up. I still strongly associate them. That's why I made the Brahms' concerto my signature piece. I honor my grandfather whenever I play it."

"Was your grandfather a musician?"

"Yes. He taught me how to play the violin. He was an old Russian fiddler, defected from the Ukraine to Pennsylvania with my infant mother in the '30s. He was quite good, but he'd always say his hands were too big and clumsy to play properly, which was nonsense; he played beautifully. He had this pint-sized violin crafted for me when I was four years old--it was a gorgeous instrument. He gave me lessons until I was seven. Many critics will tell you I have an unusual 'old country' Russian style for an American--I have him to thank for that."

"I was reading in your file...your background...how was it that you came to be under the guardianship of your grandfather?"

Joshua's playing changed, became quieter and darker as he searched for the simplest explanation. "He had legal cause to take me off the family farm when I was six. My father was found negligent."

Mulder's eyes expressed concern. "How was that?"

Joshua shook his head absently. "He had this charming habit of locking me in the barn whenever I displeased him--which was often. My father didn't "get" me, if you know what I mean. I slept in the barn more often than my own bed. One night it just got too damn cold and my fingers were frostbitten. I was taken to the hospital by my grandfather for emergency treatment." Joshua stopped playing and held up his left hand that gripped the violin, flexing his fingers. "It wasn't too bad until they started thawing me out. The middle fingers on my left hand turned as black as a crow's foot," he said, pointing to them with his bow. "My grandfather begged and pleaded with my doctors to keep my fingers. It was more of a practice back then to just cut everything off. They listened somehow..."

Mulder appeared to be moved by the story, and Joshua decided maybe it was time to take this man to dinner. He walked over to the piano and put the Stradivarius to bed.

"How hard is it to love a child?" he asked rhetorically, shutting the lid on the case. He could feel the old resentments echoing in his chest, but he shook them off. It was something he just couldn't care about anymore. His father was dead and buried and he was master of his own life.

"I thank God every day for my grandfather. It just about killed me when he died," he said, locking the case and turning back to his assigned companion for the evening. "Do you like paella?"

"I don't know."

"Then it's about time you found out."

********************************

La Orta Espana  
9:49 PM

In his 13 years as an FBI agent, Mulder had certainly suffered through his share of ass-numbing stakeouts and hostile witness vigils, but none of his subjects had ever been so receptive to the imposition as Joshua Segulyev. In fact, in this current situation, he didn't feel as if he was working at all, but rather enjoying a pleasant dinner with a friend. This was assuming he actually had friends who ate in fine restaurants--Eddie's Cheesesteak Hut probably didn't count.

Joshua was busy explaining the particulars of Spanish viniculture as they sat enjoying a steaming rice and seafood paella, while a flamenco guitarist wandered by singing joyfully about the virtues of Spanish maidens. Joshua had an appreciation for life's finer pleasures, that was certain. He was definitely not the type of company Mulder was accustomed to keeping. It made for a refreshing change and it beat the hell out of cold Chinese noodles, a bag of sunflower seeds and stale TV.

During the course of the dinner, Mulder discovered that, in addition to his music training, Joshua had his share of a fine education. He'd taken a particular interest in abnormal psychology during his years at the San Francisco Conservatory. They shared their views on Jung and Timothy Leary. Eventually the discussion shifted to criminology and profiling, which Joshua seemed to find especially fascinating.

"It's grim work," Mulder said, stabbing at a shrimp. "I'm amazed at some of the colleagues I had who have kept with it. They're an elite force. Law enforcement agencies from all over the world request their services. It's difficult to turn cases away."

"Why did you give it up?"

Mulder chewed his shrimp, thinking for a sensible answer. "I had a personal calling elsewhere that I couldn't ignore."

"This special unit you and Scully represent?" Joshua nudged.

Mulder was, for once, wary about giving this young man too many details. That wasn't like him; he usually shoved his purpose and opinions down everyone's throats whether they wanted to hear them or not. Here he was being asked by someone who took a genuine interest, yet he didn't feel absolutely comfortable sharing it. He decided to go for the generic description.

"Scully and I investigate unsolved cases that have been abandoned by the standard units within the FBI. We try to solve them by applying unconventional investigative techniques. Or at least I do," he corrected with a grin. "Scully is very fond of the scientific method. She's a forensic pathologist."

"And you?"

"I'm the ex-serial killer bloodhound who decided to turn his nose to sniffing out the unexplained."

Joshua raised his chin and took a sip of sangria. "That would explain why my flying skeleton man didn't take you a bit by surprise. You don't think I'm beginning to inherit the ravings of my deceased father, do you?"

Mulder gave Joshua a reassuring shake of his head. "I may have an open mind to extreme possibilities, but I don't follow those beliefs blindly. At this point I'd count your spook as a living, breathing, suspect."

"I think I'm relieved to hear that. The last thing I want is to slip into the same mindset as my father."

"Isn't that what all men fear?" Mulder joked, in turnabout to their earlier psychological discussions.

"Still, I was relieved to get it off my chest. I've felt something odd was going to happen to me for some time now."

Mulder regarded him with interest. "In what way?"

Joshua sat back in his chair, running his fingertips along the edge of his wine glass. "After the first few weeks I was in Philadelphia, I began to feel as if I was being followed whenever I was out in the city at night. I didn't see or hear anything strange; I just got the feeling that I needed to leave that town as soon as possible. I didn't connect it to the letters then, but now I wonder if they were getting to me subconsciously."

He paused and Mulder urged him to continue.

"Then the bombs were found after my performance and I requested Nanette book me on the first flight out of there. I thought coming across the country to California would shake that feeling, and it did at first, until just a few nights ago."

"Which night?"

"The night before you and Agent Scully arrived, right before Dillmont contacted me about the new letters. I had been standing outside a restaurant waiting for the car and something made me walk across the street and wait from inside a well-lit bookstore. The whole time I was in there, I kept looking around through the shelves as if I was expecting to see something, but not really knowing what it was I was going to see."

"Were there any homeless or unusual individuals loitering in that area?"

"I'm sure there were, but none seemed to bother me. No, that feeling of dread, of being followed or watched, only came to me right before I saw that strange man yesterday. I feel...he's the one who's been following me, even though I've never seen him before. I can't really explain it and it disturbs me a great deal. It disturbed me to see the police sketch."

"Do you feel an unnatural need to escape this presence?"

Joshua met his gaze. "Yes, I do. I don't like the effect it's having on me, or on my concentration. I think I've felt this uneasiness from time to time for quite a few months now."

"But it's getting stronger and more frequent?"

Joshua swallowed the last of his sangria and stared at the tablecloth. "Yes."

Mulder gave Joshua a moment to think as he polished off the last few bites of paella. The violinist looked as if he was trying to get this new actuated revelation together in his head.

"In my work, Joshua, I've seen how hard it is for some people to accept highly unusual experiences, no matter how blatantly realistic the phenomenon was made to them. Some people see an unusual event once and promptly force themselves to forget it, denying it ever happened to preserve their world view. I can understand that psychology. But then I've known some who have experienced many years of ongoing unexplainable events, one right after the other, who can still find a way to reject the possibility that there is no simple rational explanation for what they've seen."

Joshua met his eyes with passive sympathy. "That must be incredibly frustrating for someone in your line of work."

"It is, but I've had to learn how to accept it just as well as I accept the unexplained." He paused, appreciating the irony in his new-found sincerity for an attitude that had been driving him numb with frustration lately.

Joshua waved for the check and it was delivered promptly. He slipped a Platinum card into the cover and passed it right back without opening it. Mulder reached into his coat for his wallet, but Joshua refused the offer.

"The least I can do is buy you dinner for putting up with me last night. I was in a rather morose mood. I didn't have the presence of mind to thank you properly for staying with me."

"It's not necessary; I was doing my job."

The musician gave him a sincere look. "I'm familiar with the standard sympathy training issued to most officers and physicians. You actually meant it when you said you were sorry for my loss. I appreciated that. I needed to hear that from someone last night because I honestly didn't know how I was supposed to feel."

"It must have come as quite a shock."

Joshua nodded sadly. "I've tried to reach her parents, but they won't pick up. I don't think I'll hear back from them any time soon, either. They strongly objected to the engagement."

"Why?"

Joshua looked off. "They didn't believe I was sincere. I guess they were right. I knew she had difficulties sometimes...I just didn't think..." He stopped, not wanting to continue. "I guess I'd rather not think about it right now." He sat up straighter in his chair and accepted the charge receipt, signing it briskly.

"Were you ever married, Agent Mulder?"

"I was engaged for two years."

"What happened?"

"She left me for a better job."

"Ouch."

"Even I was slow to accept that phenomenon. I wore the damn ring for almost two years. It gave me some space I guess, an excuse not to get involved again for a long time."

"What brought you out of it?"

"I married my job."

Joshua made his first genuine smile for the evening. "I think I've underestimated you, Mulder. You and I have plenty in common to talk about."

*******************************************

Marina Flat  
12:24 AM  
Thursday

Joshua rolled over onto his side in his bed and dipped his chin so he could watch the man seated at the far corner of his couch, reading a book by penlight, unaware he was being studied. It was only the second night, but Joshua found it subtly erotic that the agent was sitting in his dark apartment watching over him while he slept.

Throughout their evening, Joshua noticed that Mulder had a nervous habit of running his teeth and tongue over his lower lip while he was thinking something over or finding an answer to a challenging question--and also apparently while reading--as if his mouth needed something to do. Mulder was as supremely intelligent as he was attractive. Joshua felt it a shame nobody seemed to notice this man of late, or if they did, hadn't bothered to dig below the surface.

Joshua had known Agent Mulder to be pleasing to the eye from the moment they were introduced by the stage door, but he hadn't given him much thought. The agent's offbeat charisma hadn't arrested his full attention until this evening. An enigma of otherworldly beliefs and predatory analysis, Joshua soon discovered Mulder was not formed from the same mold as other men. He was his own creation and Joshua knew that self-archetyping could be a lonely practice.

Mulder raised a hand to the binding of the book he held against his thigh, dragging the paper edge forward and over with long elegant fingers. Mulder had beautiful hands, strong and precise like a pianist's. Joshua always noticed a man's hands first. He'd fallen in love with many pairs of untouched hands over the years, wrapped around the neck of a cello or manipulating the labyrinth of keys on a bassoon. What was surprising to him was to find such a finely sculpted pair that were intended for throwing suspects to the ground or gripping the rough pad of a pistol.

Mulder licked his first finger before turning the next page. Joshua couldn't keep himself from wondering if that warm bullet-firing fingertip would feel rough or smooth against his own passing tongue. He smiled a little at the shiver that fantasy gave him.

These thoughts, although futile, were not unwelcome to him. He'd been attracted to men before--he'd even had a few male lovers. Beyond all that, he found he just plain liked the man--it was nice to have a companion to share dinner and conversation with. He couldn't help but feel some vanity at the heads that turned that night when they walked into the restaurant together. If Mulder noticed the error he made no sign, and that had pleased him even more.

Given Mulder's apparent solitary existence, it would be a more productive use of their time if they shared the bed, Joshua mused. But that was many paces ahead. Mulder was decidedly straight and the whole mystery of his emotional connection to Scully remained elusive to Joshua. He knew he was only bound to disappoint himself if he let these late thoughts progress and closed his eyes, willing his mind to quiet and bring him over into sleep.

****************************

Hall of Justice  
9:30 AM

Mulder stood outside the security entrance awaiting admission into the main lock-up. He was nursing a sore tongue from gulping down a ghastly cup of lava-hot coffee he'd picked up at a convenience store on his way in. He'd been awakened from a dead sleep at 8:30 after only a four hours' rest by the cheery boom of Lt. Jarvis.

"Good mornin' and happy Thursday! You won yourself a case, agent. Our Harris has been a busy boy all night long. You might want to get your tail down here and have yourself a look at his handiwork."

Word had it Harris pocketed the construction pencil the day before during his interview and had done a little composing of his own across the wall of his jail cell in the dead of the night. Mulder was anxious to get as many shots of it as he could before Jarvis called in the janitorial services to wipe up his precious slammer and return it to vogue status. Dillmont was also moving his ass over to Davies so Scully could join him at the prison a few hours ahead of schedule.

"Weapons, please."

Mulder unclipped his holster and handed it over, waiting for the clear blue space shield technology they called a bulletproof polymatrix door to ding and slide open for him. He found the general absence of good solid steel bars a bit unnerving.

A prison guard met him inside the corridor.

"Hope you brought your reading glasses," he said, escorting Mulder down the long hallway lit by refracted natural light panels. Most of the cells on this hall were empty.

"Are any of the messages legible?" he asked, anxious to see if his theory was correct.

"Depends on what you'd qualify as legible, but you'll certainly have a fine selection. On your left here."

The cell door was open, and at first Mulder thought they'd already begun to paint in the far corner where the wall looked darker. A few nearsighted steps closer and it came clear--the wall was darker because it was nearly covered in graphite. Messages upon messages had been written and rewritten and written again, one over another, across all three walls, most of the floor and even some parts of the ceiling. Harris must have stretched up from the edge of his single bunk to write that high. The majority of the writing was smeared or scribbled in arcane letters that one could assume were attempts at the English alphabet. However, between the drivel were the tell-tale phrases drawn in a steady hand Mulder had certainly seen before, but never to this extent.

"Don't step on the floor," Mulder warned the guard as he leaned in, trying to get a basis of where to begin cataloguing the collective works. "I don't want to lose any of this."

The guard stepped back and stood patiently in the hall while Mulder got down on all fours just outside the cell and examined the closest words first, taking digital shots as he went. In the distance Mulder heard another ding and the familiar click of thick high heels. Something caught his eye in the corner of the cell near the toilet. Pulling on a pair of gloves and crawling forward, careful not to disturb anything, he picked up the ragged end of a thick flat yellow stick no more than an inch long.

"What did you find?" Scully asked from behind him. Mulder pushed himself back up and stepped out, holding it up for her to see.

"The construction pencil, or what's left of it."

"It looks like it's been chewed," she noted.

"It has," said the guard. "The prisoner sharpened the darn thing with his teeth."

**********************************

11:30 AM

Harris gave Mulder a filthy graphite-black smile as he sat slumped across from him at the interrogation room table. Now sober, the man was shaking and unpredictable, spitting on the floor next to him every few minutes, making a slimy black puddle.

The expulsion of the vagrant's salivary glands was the most communication he and Scully had managed to draw from the man in the last twenty minutes. He clearly wasn't in his right mind.

Mulder tried once more. He took the printout of the digital shot he'd taken an hour earlier from the west wall of the cell. It was a cleaner strip of letters that spelled out "...you were stolen from us..." He pushed it directly in front of the shabby man and asked him again.

"Who made you write this, Harris?"

Harris grinned and spat, this time catching the edge of the table before it ran off onto the floor near his own foot. "I donn write nuthin'..." he repeated again.

"If you didn't write these messages on the walls of your cell, Harris, then who did?"

Harris wagged his head back and forth. "Donn no, dunno..."

"Was it a man, Harris? A thin man?"

Harris began to make a sick gurgling sound that could have been laughter. "Fuck....the thinmman...wanno go home."

"You're not going home for a long time. You might as well make your stay more pleasant by cooperating with us," Scully offered, standing behind Mulder's chair.

"Did you see a man in your cell, Harris? Did he tell you to start writing?"

Harris looked around the room almost as if he was waiting for something. "The man...he keeps on comin.'"

"Does he frighten you, this man?"

Harris just bobbed in place, a dribble of spittle beginning to drip out of his lip as he made a low moaning sound.

Mulder pulled out a copy of Joshua's gaunt suspect sketch and pushed it in front of the man. The response was instantaneous.

Harris leapt to his unstable feet with a shout and tumbled backwards, knocking the chair over. Mulder was up and around the edge of the table, grabbing the picture and holding it close to Harris as the disheveled man tried to crawl under the table away from it, babbling.

"Go away, go away!" Harris yelled at the sketch and Mulder could feel Scully's hand on his arm urging him to pull back.

"Mulder, they're coming..."

Mulder heard the safety door ding and he got to his feet. Harris was still kneeling on the floor bent over, holding his head, mumbling, "We've found you, We've found you..."

Lt. Jarvis stepped in, shaking his head. "You're not going to get too far that way, son. Now the man's gone and pissed on the floor."

"That's spit," Mulder replied sharply and exited the room.

 

* * *

 

*********************************

Chapter Five: Duet

*********************************

Davies Symphony Hall  
3:30 PM 

Mulder and Scully had fashioned a makeshift office between Terrace rows F and G, seats 18-20, as they sifted through the digital camera's printouts of the inscribed cell walls. Down below on the stage, the San Francisco Symphony was rehearsing the second movement of the Mendelssohn, refining itself to Joshua's interpretation. Dillmont had found a way to get himself called onto another case for the remainder of the afternoon.

"I'm going to deaccelerando eight bars before letter C, right before the key change. I want to milk that phrase just a little more."

Mulder could hear Joshua's voice expanding and echoing in the Hall's precision acoustics, followed by his violin.

The conductor tapped his stand. "Let's take that again...everyone, ten before C."

On his lap, Mulder was sorting digital prints, separating out the words written by the repeating phantom hand. It wasn't easy as the seat next to him flipped up, scattering a sorted stack to the floor between the bolted rows of chairs. He bit his lip to keep the obscenity he wanted to exude from echoing off the first balcony overhead.

"Mulder..." Scully leaned in from the row behind, whispering to him under the pianissimo pulse of the orchestra. "Can't this wait until later?"

Mulder looked up from where he had knelt down between the rows, picking up photos. "I want to decipher this message as soon as possible before our violinist becomes the artist formerly known as Joshua Segulyev."

"Do you believe deciphering the message will end the attacks?"

"Right now it's the best lead we have. I'm certain now these common phrases all point to the writings of a single slender individual."

"But Mulder, you saw the surveillance tapes of the lock-up. No one but the block guard entered or exited that section last night. Harris was incarcerated. He had to have written all this himself."

Mulder set the disorganized pile back on the cushion, pressing it down and wedging in his laptop to hold it in place. Brushing off his pant leg, he climbed over a row, taking the seat next to his partner so they could communicate more clearly.

"Last night at dinner, Joshua told me that he'd been somehow expecting to see the Thin Man, like he had come to him as an omen."

"Joshua believes that now?" she said, questioningly.

Mulder gave her a straight look. "Yes, he does."

Scully looked down at the paperwork in her lap, refusing to make an issue of it. "Well then, maybe you both should consider the psychological profile I just finished reviewing on Alice Schmidt. She's been diagnosed as a borderline paranoid schizophrenic given to delusions and high suggestibility. She, too, had a strong ambiguous reaction to the police sketch we faxed over last night."

Mulder closed his eyes and stretched his neck back, taking a moment to collect himself. "I'm sorry, Scully; I didn't get much sleep last night."

She blinked in acceptance of his apology for being snappy this early evening and passed the report over to him. He glanced at it and set it aside. He rubbed his eyes, too tired to read it. "So where does this leave us?"

"It leaves us with two suspects who have highly unstable psychological profiles. My guess is that they've encountered this Thin Man, as you call him, and he was able to intimidate them to the point where they believe they still see him."

Mulder crossed his arms and tried to get more comfortable in the small plush seat. "That doesn't explain Joshua's sighting."

"No," she admitted. "Not entirely, but he is under a great deal of stress."

"Are you suggesting he's met this man before?"

"It's possible. If this man is skilled in hypnosis or other suggestive techniques, he could be planting thoughts and images in these people, including Joshua."

"But Joshua's the one being threatened. If our masterminding suspect was able to get close enough to hypnotize him, then why didn't he just make good on his promises and..." Mulder made a trigger-pulling move with his hand.

"Perhaps killing Joshua isn't his final goal? Have any of the repeated phrases actually mentioned death? The words of violence, as confusedly as they've been spelled out, have been from the hands of Schmidt and Harris, who incidentally both attacked Joshua in a violent manner that was particular to them. The Thin Man, if he even exists, may only be trying to scare Joshua into hearing his message."

Mulder gave that some serious thought. Whoever was influencing these people, he was getting better and faster results. "Which makes clarifying the message even more important," he said to her, reaching forward and picking up a photo he'd missed under the adjoining row. He flipped it around, thinking. Something caught his eye in a flow of markings he had previously taken for scribble.

"Scully...look at this. Does that look like Cyrillic to you?"

Scully took the photo from him, shifting it around. "I don't know, my Russian is pretty spotty. Do we have a translator in San Francisco?"

"Yeah, but I think he's busy with a concerto right now." 

*********************************** 

Guest Artist's Greenroom  
4:00 PM

"I'm sorry; I may look Russian, but I never learned to read or write it," Joshua said, handing the printout back to Scully. He was off for the rest of the day while the orchestra rehearsed the remainder of their program. "It might be Cyrillic, but aside from a few general terms of endearment and profanity, I never heard my grandfather speak Russian. He was very 'Anastasia' about that--he wanted to forget everything about his homeland."

"Your mother lives in San Francisco. Do you think she might be able to help us?" Scully asked.

Joshua felt the pull of guilt in his gut. "She might, but right now she doesn't even know I'm in town. I'd like to keep it that way for a few more days if possible. And I'd really prefer that she didn't find out about these letters at all. I can call Nanette. She speaks a little Russian, I think."

Mulder looked puzzled. "I thought your manager was French?"

Joshua sat down in his dressing chair, draping his arm along the back to ease the ache in his left side. "She is. She was born there, but she was raised in Chutove, the same Ukrainian village my grandfather came from. I think their parents knew one another or something. She's taken care of me for years."

"When did Nanette begin to work for you?" Scully asked.

"When I was about seventeen, after we moved to San Francisco. My grandfather arranged for her to come live with us."

"That must have been difficult, considering the communist state of the Ukraine during the early '80s," Scully commented.

"I suppose so. My grandfather was always tight-lipped about any dealings he still had with Soviet Russia--he detested the entire revolution, collectivization in particular. He just wanted to come to America, start a new farm, and forget. He had to leave my grandmother behind when he defected, you know."

"Was this the same farmland your mother inherited?" Mulder asked.

"Yes. When she married, my grandfather gave over the deed to her and her new husband as a wedding present. He'd done well with it in the almost thirty years he worked it, and saved enough money to retire to Philadelphia. I can't say the same for my father, though. The land was virtually worthless and my mother penniless when he passed away. That's why she's living in our old Divisadero home now. Nanette sees that a portion of my income goes to her each month. She's well cared for even if she doesn't quite appreciate it."

"We'd like you to ask Nanette to look at these photos tomorrow morning and see if she can translate any of it," Mulder said, dragging a couple chairs from the dressing table. He took a seat across from Joshua and offered the empty chair to Scully. She took it, and sitting, filed the cell photo away in her bag.

"We interviewed Harris today," Mulder continued. "He reacted very strongly to the sketch of the Thin Man. I think he's seen him before and was compelled by him to continue the message writing. I haven't had an opportunity to piece the entire message together, but in all, it seems to be a mixture: random hateful babblings in Harris' handwriting; some legible phrases written in the familiar second hand; and now something that looks like a few lines of Cyrillic."

"Does the message say anything meaningful yet?" Joshua asked, with apprehension. A part of him wanted to understand what this thin man was asking of him, while another part didn't want to even think about it.

"From what I can tell, the core message seems to reflect a discovery, an end to a search. 'We have found you...you are the one...' You seem to represent a significant end to a quest."

"But why me? I don't understand what it is I'm supposed to represent."

Mulder glanced briefly at his partner before he continued. "Are you familiar with the Tales of Baba Yaga?"

Joshua could see Scully's tension rising at the mention of the fairytale. He wondered why her partner's methods continued to come as such an unwelcome element to her. He turned back to Mulder. "Yes, my grandfather used to read them to me. The witch is the most well-known of the old Russian fables."

"Can you recall one involving a legend about a ten-thousand-year-old man?"

Joshua felt an unexpected chill run up his spine. He could recall an illustration from the book his grandfather used to read to him, a watercolor drawing of an emaciated old man with long gray hair and a beard. "Uh, the witch has the man locked in her hut for years, until a young prince comes by and finds him chained in a closet. The...old man tells the prince if he'll set him free, he'll give him a magical map to find a...I'm forgetting...a golden shield, or something like that. He lets the man go and the prince leaves on his quest which takes years and years--so long, that when he succeeds and returns, everyone he knew from his youth is dead and he has aged beyond recognition and lost his kingdom." He looked at Mulder, questioning the connection.

"That's the one," the agent said with an odd grin. "I can understand the old man's wish to be released from bondage, but what doesn't make sense, according to what I learned at BSU, are his motives for cursing the prince for freeing him."

Scully appeared to reach her capacity for entertaining Mulder's tactics and interceded. "What I believe my partner is trying to say, is thus far we've only been able to establish method. Harris has a history of assault with sharp instruments, and Schmidt has a history of domestic terrorism. They acted out their aggressive compulsions in like manner. What we can't establish with either of these suspects is motive."

"You mean why they would want to attack me?"

"Yes," Scully continued. "Or how they would even gain awareness of you--your rehearsal schedule, or private address, for example. Ten-thousand-year-old-men aside, what we're seeking is someone with a tangible grievance against you...and one area we've been looking into is the death of your ex-fiance."

Joshua couldn't hide his uneasiness at this admission. Scully continued, in a careful tone. "I contacted Elise's stepfather today. I told him we were investigating a series of threats against you. He wasn't very cooperative, but I did manage to establish the fact he and his wife were upset you hadn't attended the funeral. They claim to have sent several letters to you, none of which were received, apparently."

"What?" Joshua opened his mouth in shock. Why hadn't he received them? No wonder they weren't returning his calls. He thought it over; there was only one reasonable explanation.

"Nanette," he said, setting his forehead in his hand. "She must have felt she was protecting me." He held the thought for a few moments before he looked up at the agents again. "I think it's about time I spoke with her, about more than just her Russian." 

*******************************

Marina Flat  
8:00 PM

When Mulder parked outside the Marina flat, he was surprised to find Joshua and Dillmont at the front walk, awaiting the musician's private car. Joshua had his tux and long coat on, the Stradi case tucked under his arm. Dillmont had made an appearance after their talk with Joshua at Davies so Mulder could head back to the hotel for a nap and a bite to eat before his shift. His mood had improved considerably, despite his growing irritation at Scully for making him feel he needed permission to conduct this case according to his own instincts.

Joshua at least seemed pleased to see him. "Mulder! Just in time. You get a free concert tonight," he said, nodding his quick good-bye to the other agent, who looked very relieved as Mulder came up onto the curb to take his place. "Not that I wouldn't have taken Agent Dillmont, but he's not half the classical aficionado you are."

Mulder nodded his incredulous thanks. He was mildly flattered. He had just barely begun to know anything about the subject. "I didn't know you had to play tonight."

"Neither did I. I just got the call. Thank God--there's the car. We need to get out to Berkeley in twenty minutes." Joshua seemed genuinely excited as he rotated his wrist to check the time.

The car pulled up half onto the curb and the driver stepped out to open the back door for the two men.

"I'm going to get spoiled by all this chauffeuring and catering," Mulder told him as the doors were shut and the car pulled quickly out onto Jefferson.

"Not quite the same treatment you get as a government employee, I assume?"

"Not even close, but we do get all government holidays off. Even if I don't take them, ever. What will I be forced to listen to tonight?" he asked with a mock sigh.

Joshua set the case down at his feet and shifted his coat off his shoulders. "Do you like Bach?"

Mulder's interest piqued. "I do. In fact I'm well acquainted with him. My mother had a vast collection on vinyl. I'm quite fond of the Brandenburg Concertos."

"Good. I think the chamber orchestra is playing one after my set. We'll stay and listen if you like."

"What are you playing?"

"Bach Concerto for Violin and Oboe. Will called me in a fit about twenty minutes ago. His violinist is stuck behind a chemical spill on the Nimitz freeway just outside of San Jose."

"Will?"

"William Bennet, SF Symphony principal oboist. They do small chamber concerts six times a year at St. John's Presbyterian in Berkeley. He's just amazing; wait until you hear his tone--phenomenal. Beats the hell out of Heinz Holliger, but don't tell any Swedes I said that," he said with a laugh; then he suddenly went silent as if arrested by a thought.

"Ah...shit. Driver, can I use your phone?" The driver reached back, handing a cellphone to Joshua.

"What's wrong?" Mulder asked.

The musician smiled, shaking his head. "I forgot to ask what key we're playing in tonight."

"What key?"

Joshua nodded, smirking a bit to himself then frowning briefly when the phone message service picked up and he beeped off the phone. "Damn, they must already be in the green room. Yes--you see, the Bach Oboe and Violin Concerto wasn't originally written for Violin or Oboe; it's a transcription from clavier. Sometimes people read the D Minor version, which is pitched easier for the oboe--others, the C Minor," he explained, thanking the driver and returning his phone. "I can play both from memory, but I really hope it's in C Minor. It's my favorite key; it breaks the heart. I think you'll like it," he said with a smile. 

****************************************

St. John's Presbyterian Church  
Berkeley  
8:50 PM

Turn-of-the-century Gothic architecture was made for more than worshipping a deity, Mulder discovered, gazing up at the high arched alcoves and stained glass windows that bounced and projected the melodies of the chamber orchestra. Each note resounded in the high space, from the tiny cling of the harpsichord, to the deep groan of the cellos and basses, all seated closely together on the raised steps before the altar as they played the concerto's opening Allegro. Joshua and the yellow-haired oboist, William, stood in the front sans music, passing the counterpoint back and forth as the movement wound down into the final bars.

He could get used to a life like this--traveling the world from metropolis to capital, rushing off to a church while his ward took on an unexpected chamber gig. Moreover, it was pleasant to have an excuse to just sit back and listen to the classics for the sake of enjoyment--not just during an elevator ride or a frustrating turn on hold. He didn't even mind the cold wooden pew under his ass, or the fact he had to sit sideways to cross his legs. For the first time in his life, Mulder was enjoying sitting quietly in a church.

In the silent pause that occurred between movements, the oboist took a quick sip of water while Joshua let the Stradi hang at his side for a brief arm stretch before tucking the instrument back under his chin. The oboist sucked the double reed once or twice and their eyes clicked. With a barely perceptible nod, William began the Adagio and the orchestra followed in the next breath.

In his mind's eye, Mulder began to see the notes forming an image of two young lovers. The raindrop pizzicato of the cellos metered the love poem, sung through the long plaintive cries of the oboe reaching toward its higher register; while Joshua's patient bowing led and nurtured the young maiden into his embrace, seducing her, making her sing only for him.

Joshua held his instrument so delicately, it was a miracle it didn't slip from his fingers as it wove itself around the slurs and vibrato of the reeded woodwind. Mr. Bennet held under ten fingers a cluster of glinting keys that exuded the most sublimely penetrating tones from such a small core of wood. The control these men had over their inanimate extensions was unbelievable--they became the instrument.

Mulder soon found he could no longer look at the musicians' faces as they played this Adagio without feeling a unusual ache painfully filling his throat. The soul of every note played freely across their eyes as they fell open or slightly closed without shame. He could not imagine what it was like to know an art so thoroughly one could simply fall in step with another musician of comparable skill and together create a sound so pure and effortless. Did these men know one another, or was he bearing witness to the briefest of marriages, captured between the bars and measures of sustained whole notes and half rests under the echoing arches of a decades-old church?

He envied them--their ability to communicate intimately in a form so timeless and readily accepted and shared with the opened ears of the audience that filled the pews. He felt himself pulled so close into it he could barely breathe...and at all costs doing everything he could to hide it.

The Adagio was winding down, crawling ever more slowly as the two instruments struck longer and stronger sustained chords together. Then the oboe rose and gave one final statement of exaltation alone before the chamber group sang one last note along in chorus and all fell silent together.

Mulder held his breath through the brief pause until the frolic of the final Allegro got underway. He swallowed his emotion and took the respite to let his heart catch up on the oxygen it needed to keep beating. Joy and celebration in Bach he could take; it was the simple beauty of the slow solo voices that tore at him. He opened the small program he still held in his hand. It had been ages since anything had moved him that unexpectedly.

The Concerto was in C Minor. 

******************************************

Marina Flat  
1:00 AM  
Friday

Mulder stood at the window looking down at Marina Blvd., running along the Bay Shore. He could see his reflection in the glass. His face looked aged to him--like somehow years of his life had flown by in a moment and now here he was older, quieter, standing in a strange apartment well after midnight, with the minutes ticking by so slowly he could feel the long silences between the seconds.

Joshua was showering before bed, and Mulder found himself wishing the night would fade and the sun would rise so he could leave, and go back to his empty hotel room where he could feel numb, neutral. The silence disturbed him and he found himself eyeing Joshua's CD Rack and stereo to his left. He'd been invited to make himself at home many times, so why not now? There were still echoes of emotion in him that had been called up by the music he'd heard tonight. He wanted to find something to make the seconds tick past faster--something that would help distract him from the uneasiness he was feeling.

Vivaldi Guitar Solos. They seemed as good as any. He slid the disc in and hit play. The clean pluck and strum of a single acoustic guitar with string accompaniment dropped lightly into the room as Mulder heard the shower shut off. They'd been out late. Joshua had met up with him at intermission and they stayed for the Brandenburg. It was nice; it felt friendly. Mulder was pleased Joshua would make the time for him, to just sit and listen to Bach together.

Afterwards, they joined a few orchestra members at a Berkeley late-night cafe for some coffee and conversation. Mulder let Joshua make the introductions--he knew he didn't want them to know he was FBI. For once Mulder didn't want them to know, either. It was nice to just be labeled "friend" and included even if he had no answer to "What do you play?"

Violin and viola cases stuffed the booth they all occupied as stories were shared. One of the men could recall working under the direction of Leonard Bernstein during his final years with the New York Philharmonic. Names of composers and musicians living and dead--they were spoken of as if they might drop by and share a cup with them at any moment. Music kept people alive. It also connected the living. Joshua had never met these men before, yet they had hours of stories to share and a common language to speak in. It was quite simply one of the best evenings he'd had in a long time. Yet, somehow he couldn't bring himself to voice that gratitude to Joshua as they rode back to the city together in the back of the car, silent.

"Ah, caught you."

Mulder turned away from the window, a little startled. "Vivaldi, good choice. Very relaxing." Joshua appeared from the alcove, robed, and drying his short dark hair with a towel. "I think I'll restring my 'A' before bed. It will give it time to loosen before morning," he said, tossing the towel aside and reaching for his case which he brought over to the back of the piano, unzipping and unlatching the lid. "Why don't you sit down, Mulder? You make me nervous pacing around."

Mulder pushed his hands into his pockets and made his way over to the couch, sitting at the end farthest from the Steinway. "Sorry."

"It's all right; you're just doing a job..." he said somewhat oddly, reaching into a bookshelf drawer for a slip of fresh strings. "But you could take off your tie for a change. We know each other that well at least," he said with a brief grin.

Mulder complied, if for no other reason than to convince himself there was nothing to be feeling awkward about. Yet he did feel strange, like he was somehow there under false pretenses.

"Thank you for the concert--and the coffee. I enjoyed it," he said simply, feeling a bit more at ease as he slipped his tie off and folded it on the coffee table. "I don't get the opportunity to do that very often."

Joshua turned the tuning peg on the violin, loosening the aging A string. "To go out with a bunch of musicians, or to listen to Bach?"

"Either."

"I figured that," Joshua answered as he flicked on a small halogen light over the piano, casting him in a mini spotlight in contrast with the dim interior of the studio.

"Was I that obvious?" Mulder asked, with a somewhat embarrassed grin.

Joshua only nodded as he unwound the string slowly with precision.

"It was interesting. I think I'm learning more about this art every day."

"You are. That's what I like about you, Mulder, you're very..." He paused to bite his lip as he pulled the string free with a twang "...curious. It's refreshing to meet someone who's experiencing classical music for the first time. It's like taking your kids to Disneyland," he remarked with a shrug. "Or so I've been told."

Mulder chuckled at that comparison and relaxed, settling back into the corner of the couch, letting his arm rest along the cushions. "I've never been to Disneyland either," he said softly, wondering why the heck not. "That's supposed to be every American's dream, right? Disneyland, Old Faithful, Empire State Building...you're done. You can die now."

Joshua smiled, feeding the new string into the burrowed hole in the peg. "Well, I guess I'm done for, I play at the Disneyland Hotel in two weeks. I'll send you a postcard."

"Thanks."

"There aren't too many places I haven't been to for at least a few hours," he said, slowly tightening the peg a few turns, before pausing and rewinding to begin the process again with less string feed.

"That must have been something--touring Europe and Asia for three years."

Joshua nodded, keeping his eyes on his work, crossing one bare leg over the other as he settled his hip against the piano. He was quiet for a few moments and Mulder wondered if he'd touched a sore subject. "People have been very kind to me," Joshua answered. He seemed satisfied with his threading, and turned the knob quickly to pull the string taut. He plucked it and gave the peg another half turn. "You should let yourself out more, Mulder, just be with people. It sharpens your perspective and broadens your thinking."

Mulder chewed his lip, wondering what the young man was getting at. He wanted to ask if he was suggesting he had a narrow mind. It amazed him that anyone would think that. That almost made him sound normal for a change. "I may not be that immersed in the general public, but I do see my share of mind-broadening events."

Joshua agreed with a nod. "That, I can imagine. But it's not quite the same thing...there we go...let's try this." He picked up the violin and plucked the strings in pairs, making fine adjustments with the knobs at the base of the bridge. He began to walk with the instrument under his chin, plucking and adjusting, making small sounds along with the guitar on the stereo. The man could make music even when he was tuning.

"How long have you been involved in these obscure investigations?"

"Almost ten years," Mulder answered, wondering at how long it had been himself. No wonder Diana seemed so different to him now. She had been there at the start. A person can change a lot in a decade, X-Files or no. "I created the unit to examine and perpetuate a forgotten collection of unexplainable cases--everything from ghosts to UFOs. I've spent these years trying to find the connections between them. It's amazing how often the history of the unknown repeats itself."

"What is it you hope to learn?" Joshua asked, walking around the back of the piano. He reached down to strike a key as he passed, plucking some more with a twist of the knobs.

Mulder opened his hand. "Answers, truths. I believe I'm seeking proof positive of mankind's greatest riddles."

Joshua laughed. "Which are those? I keep forgetting."

Mulder shrugged. "I suppose the most confounding questions are the simplest ones--Who are we? Where did we come from? What is our purpose? What is the meaning of life?"

"Have you ever killed a man?" The plucking stopped, and the musician came to a stop at the window where Mulder had been looking out a few minutes earlier.

Mulder rubbed his chin nervously. He hadn't been expecting that.

"You don't have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable," he added.

"Yes, I have."

"Just once?"

"No. Many times."

"How?" Joshua asked with something that sounded like sadness and awe.

"I shot them." A direct answer to a direct question. Why did it make him sound like a beast?

"With the weapon you're wearing now?"

"Yes, or one very much like it. It's standard FBI issue..."

"I see, but what I meant was *how.*"

Mulder looked at his firing hand resting in his lap. It was easier than looking at Joshua turned away from him. He felt like this might just exclude him from that sense of "belonging" very swiftly. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The nature of the life he had chosen always drove in an inevitable wedge. He just hadn't wanted it to happen tonight. He had liked being normal, for a few hours at least.

"I'm trained. All agents are trained. We are taught to analyze the situation and act accordingly. Deadly force is an unfortunate, but necessary option sometimes."

"You just...react," Joshua said without emotion.

"Sometimes a drilled reaction is the one move that saves your life or the life of your partner. I didn't say it was easy. I think about it a great deal afterwards, wondering if there was a better way."

"Who have you killed?"

Mulder released a breath. He didn't think he wanted to answer that.

"I don't mean names, just what kind of people--criminals?"

"Yes. Murderers, rapists, serial killers, pedophiles. I don't think they're missed."

"Have you ever killed a woman?"

"No! Never. Joshua, what's this all about?"

Joshua turned around to face him again with a look of apology, of acceptance. "I'm sorry. I wanted to know."

Mulder licked his bottom lip, looking away, trying to calm himself--trying to understand why this was upsetting him so much.

"I've upset you. I'm sorry. You were having a nice evening. I shouldn't have pried. It can't be easy for you."

Mulder sat up and leaned forward, drawing a hand through his hair. He wanted to flee--to go crawl back under a rock by himself somewhere. This was why he didn't "get out" more. It served him no purpose. His life was bound to the abnormal, the unbelievable and the profane. No one could understand that. No one except maybe Scully. He wished he could see her right now.

He must have been staring very intently at the white throw rug at his feet to not notice Joshua approaching. He held out the Stradivarius to Mulder at arm's length. "Take it," he said.

Mulder looked up at him, confused. Joshua nodded, watching him carefully with dark blue eyes. "Take it for a moment." Mulder reached out with two hands to hold the violin as Joshua released his grip on the neck. It was surprisingly light, like a dried leaf. Mulder set it in his lap, fearful it would fold in his hands.

"In 1726 a small artisan by the name of Antonio Stradivari sat in his workshop in Cremona, Italy, and began planing the wood for this violin. He gouged it and shaped it and bent it until it fit a form in his mind's eye. This chamber," he said, pointing to the curved holes in the sides of the violin before taking a pluck at the new string, "made the exact same sound, this same 'A,' almost 275 years ago. Both you and I and Antonio all have that much in common now. This small handmade instrument connects us."

Mulder glanced down at the violin with its dark, age-tinted stained wood. "What is it worth?" he asked out of curiosity.

Joshua looked down at him with a somewhat distant expression. "The last time this instrument was sold was to the Philadelphia Conservatory in 1956, for the equivalent of 1.3 million dollars today."

Mulder looked up at the man in the robe standing over him. "I think I'd like you to take this back now."

Joshua smiled at him and folded his arms--it appeared he was enjoying Mulder's discomfort. Mulder wasn't letting more than the tips of his two index fingers touch the instrument settled in his lap.

"When they awarded me this instrument I couldn't even pick it up for a month. I was almost sixteen. I left it in the case. I would open the case, check the barometer every few hours or so, but I couldn't even touch it. It was too much. I would lie awake and get up in the middle of the night to just stare at it. Finally, my grandfather said to me, 'Sasha, you fool, go get the fiddle. What's wrong with you? You need me to show you how to play?' I told him I didn't think I could touch it, that I couldn't ever play it. That I'd never be good enough to play it.

"A few days later it was my birthday. Grandpapa took me by the arm and told me he had a surprise. He told me I had to play for a very special guest and blindfolded my eyes, led me into the drawing room, and sat me in a chair before my waiting audience. He then went and got my violin and set it in my hands. I took the bow and played the first note. I knew immediately it was the Stradi, but I couldn't stop; I had to perform. My instinct, my training, made me play right to the bitter end. I was glad for the blindfold, because I wept the entire time. When I finished there was only silence. I removed the blindfold to see I had played to an empty room."

Mulder didn't know what to say in the pause that followed. He wanted to say something and he wanted to turn away.

Joshua blinked and continued.

"The instrument is now considered priceless. It will never be sold again--only loaned to another violinist after my death or retirement."

"I don't think I've held something quite this valuable before," Mulder said, trying to sound grateful.

Joshua looked at him, held his gaze closely. "I think you have," he said quietly. With a sure touch, he took up the violin and nestled it under his chin, walking away to finish tuning.

Mulder watched him move slowly across the reflecting glass of the window panes. A white robe and a dark violin, plucked tenderly by its lover pane to pane. He walked back to the case and set the violin in to rest.

"I'm going to sleep now," he said without looking up. "Do you mind turning off the stereo?"

Mulder got up from the couch and walked on numbed legs to the stereo, clicking the power as the lights came down and went off. In the dim glow of the moon he saw Joshua turn down the bed, pull off his robe, and slip into the sheets.

'Do you have an instrument?' the men had asked him.

Now Mulder had an answer for them--a gun. 

*********************************

Chapter Six: Truth

*********************************

He was back in Vermont, sitting on the white bench by the swan pond. He came here in the mornings after a sleepless night so the flutter and bob of the birds could calm his mind. In the night he would wake, reaching for the violin, but they had taken it from him. The instrument was sitting silently in New York, waiting patiently on the back of a piano for his return.

He could see her walking up the path toward him as she was accustomed to doing at this same time early each day. She'd smile at him; he'd smile back. She was pretty, small and fair. But she hadn't said hello, not yet. She just kept walking. But not today.

"I'm a poet," she said, taking the seat next to him.

"Have they taken your paper and pen?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you miss them?"

"Yes, and no," she said, brushing her long light brown hair back from her shoulder. "It's nice to not have the option."

"I suppose," he answered, feeling the darkness rising in his gut.

"So what are you?"

"I'm a musician...a violinist."

"Are you good?"

He grinned a little. "Yes, I am."

"You must be if they sent you here."

"How is your poetry?"

"It *was* good."

"What happened?"

"It began to corrode my blood."

He could see the places, traced in thin scars across her wrists, where she had tried to extract it.

###

Later, in his bed, they tried to find answers to the questions that had been eluding them. Why is the moon made of paper? Why is the sea just a line of painted blue on the horizon? Of what is each of us made?

The sweet smell of her skin under him, her arms reaching down his back, pulling him deeper into her. This was a place where questions didn't need to be asked and they found themselves disappearing here again and again. Until one day he knew it was time to go home. It was time to accept the cruelties of life and learn to focus on the beauty.

For a while it seemed that philosophy had been born into her as well. He had placed it there, inside her. It was something they could share and build on. These were the gifts lovers had to offer.

###

If it was an open grave that had sent him to that place in Vermont, it was a newer grave that brought him home.

He stood alone, watching the men lower his father's casket into the frozen ground. Ice covered the dead meadow grass and crunched underfoot. He felt his breath sealing in crystals around the edge of his scarf, holding in the unspoken scream. Looking across the chasm between them, he could see his mother crying and crying for someone who had died in his heart the day his first violin crumbled into ash.

###

"Are you here for Valentine's?" she asked, her pale blue eyes filled with joy at his arrival home.

He kissed her hands and took her outside, where her family had a small goldfish pond.

"I have a poem for you," she said, placing a small slip of rice paper in his hands. He didn't open it.

"Will you play for me tonight?" she asked, hoping once again that he had brought the violin.

"I can't..." he said, and let the paper slip from his fingers, the ink bleeding from it as it floated on the surface of the pond. 

*********************************************

Marina Flat  
8:30 AM  
Friday

Joshua woke. The sunlight was piercing through the windows he had left uncurtained last night. He rolled over to look at the couch. Like a magic spell, one partner had transformed into the other at sun-up. Male to female.

"Did I wake you?" Agent Scully asked.

He scratched the back of his head. "No, I need to get up. Dress rehearsal this afternoon, very exciting."

She smiled pleasantly and resumed her writings in a small notebook while he reached to the floor for his robe and headed to the bath to clean up and dress.

Joshua closed the door and turned on the faucet. Nanette would be here in half an hour and he still hadn't figured a way to approach her on the subject of his mail. It wasn't entirely her fault; at one point he had been glad to let her take over his dealings with the rest of the world. He shouldn't be too surprised to find her editing out the trials of life for him. She wanted him to stay happy. She didn't want to see him deteriorate like he had two years ago when she coerced him into spending six weeks at Appassionata in Vermont. It was a refocusing program for "confused" artists--a nutfarm disguised as a polite vacation with charming bungalows.

He bent over the sink to run handfuls of water through his hair. He wasn't crazy, not even then. Where is the madness in grieving? Still, it had served its purpose. It got him playing again. They probably printed that in their brochures. 

*******************************************

9:10 AM

"Would you like some coffee, Agent Scully?"

"Yes I would, thank you."

"Nana?"

"None for me, darling," his manager said, fishing in her briefcase for her reading glasses. Joshua had no idea of her real age, but she did seem to be about ten years younger than his grandfather, who'd passed on at 85.

Agent Scully had spread seven photos out on Joshua's small kitchen bar. He didn't own a table; he never ate here. He filled two mugs and set one next to the agent as he brought over the sugar and creamer. He pulled up a stool and sat, watching Nanette squint over the first photo of the cell writing as he sipped.

"Yes, yes," she said in her French-tinted lilt. "This is Russian, for certain. This word here means animals, farm animals...livestock, you know. And this word here below it means wheat or grain."

Agent Scully looked mildly surprised and glanced at Joshua, who shrugged.

Nana picked up the next photo, turning it to find the letters. "This word is hard to read; it says...oh, I don't like this word. Why are you asking me to read this? This is a bad man..."

Agent Scully touched Nanette's wrist to calm her. "We need to know what this means if we're going to stop the attacks."

Nanette looked up at Joshua and he nodded for her to continue.

The old woman set the photo flat on the table and touched the first word. "This word, 'zariezam,' it means...to kill, to slaughter; and this word means to bury in the ground."

Agent Scully was writing the words down in her notebook. "What about the letters in this last set of photos?"

Nanette looked at the last three photos taken of the same word at different angles. "It means...to hunger, or to starve. That is all I see in this. How can this help you?" She asked the agent, flustered.

"My partner believes that these key phrases and words are part of a message, mixed up like a word scramble. He believes if we take all the words and arrange them in order, we can understand what this person or persons are trying to say."

"I think it's nonsense," Nanette said stubbornly. "They keep writing them because you keep reading them--paying attention to them. I was right in throwing them out."

"Nana," Joshua spoke up reluctantly, looking into his mug. "Protecting me by keeping me ignorant of things like this will only hurt me in the long run."

"But Joshua, you need to keep focused on your playing."

He looked up at her, trying to find the courage to make himself clear. "I know, Nana, but not if it's going to get me killed. I have to ask you--did you keep Elise's funeral announcement from me?"

The old woman looked shocked. "What, darling? No! How could you say such a thing?"

Joshua gave a nod toward Agent Scully. "The FBI called her parents, Nana. They said they mailed me many times."

"No. Joshua, no. I did not do this. I did not see any letters from them. If I did, I would have brought them to you. I didn't hear about this tragedy until you called me from the hospital."

Joshua felt like he couldn't quite believe her, but kept those unsettling feelings to himself. His mail was being handled care of the FBI now, anyway. She was an old woman--afraid for him, that was all.

"I'm sorry, Nana; of course you didn't," he said, setting down his mug. "Now tell me how things are going with Vienna." 

******************************************

Marriott Hotel  
Union Square  
1:10 PM

There was a knock at his door. Mulder sat up from where he'd been lying across the bed, arranging and rearranging the words and phrases he'd copied onto torn pieces of Marriott stationery, trying to make sense of the mysterious message.

"Mulder? Are you awake yet?"

"Yeah, Scully. Hold on," he replied, reaching for his slacks and pulling them on before letting her in. He'd showered and begun to dress when a particular strain of text had caught his eye-- "...we were sacrificed for you...you must see where you came from...you are us..."

Although Mulder still believed the plural was a ruse, the voice was demanding that Joshua pay notice to some sort of mass suffering or sacrifice. It was the only demand the phantom seemed to have.

Mulder opened the door. Scully stepped in, giving him a frustrated look. "I've been trying to call you for over an hour, Mulder. Why did you turn off your phone?"

"My phone?" Mulder absently reached for a pocket which he'd yet to put on. "Oh, I forgot. I was at a concert last night with Joshua in Berkeley. They requested all pagers and cellphones be turned off."

"You went to Berkeley with him?" she asked, somewhat surprised, as Mulder shut the door and walked to the bed to pull on his shirt and do up the buttons.

"Yeah, a Bach chamber concert...Scully, did you get that translation this morning?"

She reached into her blazer for a small notebook. "Yes. You were right, Mulder; it's Russian, but the words don't form a full sentence." Mulder looped his tie around his collar and took the notes from her, ripping out the page and then tearing out each separate word.

"Sounds like farming terms," he said, laying them out on the bed with the other scraps. "I wonder if it's in reference to Joshua's childhood?"

"It could be," Scully agreed, coming to stand at the end of the bed to read over his arrangement. "Mulder, did you know that Joshua voluntarily checked himself into a psychiatric recovery program in the spring of 1997?"

Mulder stopped knotting his tie at this new fact. "He did?"

"Yes. It seems he suffered a mental breakdown earlier that year and canceled his tour dates. Newspaper reports claim he collapsed after the conclusion of a concert in Paris. He had been informed during intermission that his grandfather had passed away here in San Francisco after suffering what was to be the final of a series of minor strokes."

Mulder felt saddened by this news. Joshua hadn't told him how his grandfather had died.

"It was during his stay at this program that he met his fiance, Elise Strathmore."

Mulder finished with his tie and reached for his shoes, sitting at the edge of the bed to put them on. "What was she in for?"

"Suicide attempt. One of several throughout her life. Which leads me to believe her parents probably aren't likely to blame Joshua's desertion solely for her death."

Mulder stood and pulled on his coat, reaching into his pocket to make sure he turned his phone back on. "I suppose that leaves us with even fewer leads," he said dejectedly.

Scully licked her upper lip in an equal show of frustration. "I don't understand, Mulder; what's the connection between Schmidt, Harris and Joshua? Nothing in their past records indicates a thread of commonality, and we've yet to determine who wrote the first of the letters."

Mulder brushed her arm and pointed back to the display on the bedcover. "I'm more certain than ever that the answer is here, in these words. We just need to find the key to their meaning. Consider the series of events: First, Joshua happens upon Harris; a few minutes later the thin man appears to him. Less than an hour after that, Joshua finds himself at Harris' knife point. It's almost as if the Thin Man was sending a message to Joshua, letting him know Harris would be the next assailant. At first I thought we were searching for something natural, but the more dead ends we hit through conventional means, the more I'm convinced we're dealing with the unnatural."

Scully raised her eyes to him and sighed, exasperated. "Mulder..."

"What, Scully? Why does the idea that this Thin Man might not be made of flesh come as such a impossibility to you? When you, yourself, have witnessed a harbinger of death first hand?"

He hadn't wanted to bring it up--that case of the murdered co-eds near the DC bowling alley. He hated to bring up any mention of those bleak days, when she had been sick. But somehow he couldn't help himself--he wouldn't let her dismissing remarks go unchallenged this time.

It seemed she didn't appreciate the reference either, and her hands found their way to her hips as she snapped back at him. "Baba Yaga, Mulder? Who's next on your suspect list, Mother Goose? You're grasping at straws."

Mulder sucked in his lower lip before he let his growing irritation get the better of his tongue. "If you have a better theory, Scully, I'd love to hear it."

She turned away, a flush of crimson rising to her cheeks. She had nothing to offer him. The discussion was closed as tightly as their divided grips on the nature of the world. Why did a pairing that used to complement so well do nothing but lay mortar between the stones of their ideals nowadays?

"I realize we differ in our approach to solving cases," he said thickly. "We've always differed. What's changed is you used to respect my methods."

"Mulder," she said with an audible level of hurt in her voice. "I respect *you.* What I don't respect is your lack of common sense and tact when dealing with other professionals."

"You mean Joshua."

She closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry if working for the X-Files embarrasses you," he said, grabbing his card key and heading past her for the door. "This is my life." 

*********************************************

Davies Symphony Hall  
Grand Green Room  
7:00 PM

Joshua emerged from his private room dressed in his performance best--a white bow tie and vest with classic 19th-century collar, black waistcoat and tails. Ostentatious perhaps for evening wear, yet still well within code for world-class soloists. It was an hour before downbeat and most of the Symphony musicians were milling about the main green room, tuning instruments, checking reeds, and blowing spit valves.

Joshua greeted a few of the musicians and wished them a good performance as he made his way through the crowded room. He loved galas; they always brought out the city's finest citizens--from mayors to movie stars--all dressed to the nines and strutting about looking important, nibbling finger sandwiches and sipping champagne. It was a spectacle he was always thrilled to be at the center of. He was looking forward to seeing the audience filling the seats and corridors instead of the SFPD's Emergency Response team, which had been doing a final sweep of Davies during the afternoon dress rehearsal. Mulder told him the team had been searching for traces of explosives in the early morning hours during the previous week as well. So far every stairway and ceiling tile had turned up clean. Even though Alice Schmidt had been the only suspect to send in bomb threats, they weren't going to take any chances with an, as yet, unidentified accomplice.

Joshua had seen the FBI about throughout the day as well--Scully, Mulder and Dillmont, plus a few others he didn't recognize. They appeared to be interviewing and double-checking staff members and ushers as they reported to work.

Joshua flipped back his tails and took a seat at one of the tables, idly flipping through the day's paper. Aside from a preview of tonight's concert, there was no mention of the 'curse,' his attack, or the near miss in Philadelphia. Joshua hoped his fortune would turn now for the better and the evening's performance would run as smoothly as the impromptu Bach last night.

Joshua smiled a little to himself--he'd enjoyed spending yesterday evening with Mulder more than he'd like to admit. His growing fondness for the man was probably not going entirely unnoticed by the agent, but if Mulder was becoming aware of it, he showed no sign. As much as Joshua was looking forward to performing tonight, he was looking forward even more to those quiet hours afterwards. It wasn't hard to see that the music was beginning to have its subtle effect on Mulder, even if the man was trying his best to hide it--fearing the emotions the notes could evoke as a weakness. As much as Joshua enjoyed educating Mulder in music, he yearned to show him how being with a man, like opening the heart to Bach, was anything but a show of weakness. In truth, he found it to be an ultimate act of masculinity--to overcome the lies and perceptions of misguided faith and beliefs and discover that deep down we are all the same, both needful and giving.

Joshua knew Mulder was a fine vintage better left to age slowly in its cask than to be swallowed in haste, but his inextricable attraction to him was beginning to get the better of his careful pacing. It had been well over a year since he'd led anyone into his bed, and there was no mistaking his reviving thirst for it.

"Mr. Segulyev?" A backstage tech with a headset approached him, disrupting his thoughts. "If you're ready, Security would like to brief you."

Joshua nodded at him briskly, and followed him out into the hall. He was still hoping to downplay the extra security measures, which at this point hadn't gone unnoticed by anyone in the Symphony Association. Fortunately, most had yet to connect the bomb threats to him directly. It seemed for some of them, bomb scares were not an unheard of occurrence. The tech held open the door to Davies' security monitoring room. The security chiefs and Agent Dillmont were awaiting him inside.

"We finished the sweep and all is clear," said the chief. "They're about to open the doors and begin admitting the guests. Anyone acting suspicious will be pulled aside and inspected. Extra ticket handlers are posted to assure authentic admission. At $100 a seat, we're not likely to be seeing many vagrants trying to wander in."

"Agent Mulder will be staying with you until you go on," said Dillmont, checking his watch. "He's probably arriving at your green room now. We'd like you to return there immediately following this interview. Once onstage we'll have extra security posted at each entrance to the Hall. After your performance we'll ask you to wait backstage until the concert's conclusion, when you'll be escorted safely out of the building."

Joshua sighed his regret at the soon-to-be cattle herding of his person. So much for mingling with the city's elite. He'd be enjoying the gala from backstage tonight.

Dillmont was eyeing his chest. "Are you wearing the vest?" Earlier, before he began to dress, the agent had brought him the latest in kevlar fashions. Joshua had left it thrown over a chair.

"No," he said, unabashed. "I refuse to play in a suit of armor. I need to be able to move my arms freely, you know."

"Your choice," Dillmont shrugged. "If security is finished with you, you can return to the green room."

The security chief nodded his dismissal. "I think you should reconsider the vest, however," the man added as Joshua headed for the door.

"Tonight I begin a new decade in my life," Joshua said over his shoulder, pushing the door open to return to the musicians. "I'll take whatever comes my way." 

*******************************

Guest Artist's Green Room   
7:15 PM 

Mulder knocked on Joshua's door before entering. There was no answer, so he opened the door slowly before stepping in. He had no idea what sort of preparations a musician took before a performance and he didn't want to disturb Joshua's concentration. His caution was needless as he soon discovered the room was empty. He wasn't concerned. He knew Joshua was around somewhere nearby and Security would direct him back here soon enough. What did concern him, however, was the vest left hanging from the back of a dressing chair. He should have known that was a futile request.

Mulder took a seat and straightened his tie. He'd just returned from the hotel where he waited for Scully to change into a gown for the evening. They were going to be seated in the audience where they could keep a closer eye on Joshua during the performance. He had completely forgotten about renting a tuxedo and selected his best suit instead, a dark rust brown coat and slacks with a dark blue shirt--a combination of colors that he hoped would make him look more fashionable and less Federal.

Scully had emerged from her room in a devastating scooped-neck number with long sleeves and white sequins. As breathtaking as she was to look at, he knew she still hadn't forgiven him for the early afternoon outburst in his hotel room. To be honest, Mulder had yet to forgive himself. He hated being at odds with her; it made him feel lost inside. He counted on her so much for stability during their casework; he had begun to take it for granted, perhaps. Whatever strain had been pulled between them, he was desperate to ease it, yet found he didn't have the slightest idea how. Their ride back over to Davies had been as silent as an ice covered pond.

The door opened and Joshua entered, looking rushed. "For godsake, Mulder, do they have to keep those techs following me every second of the day? I feel like I'm part of an international broadcast with them reporting my every move."

Mulder gave him an understanding nod. "I'm sorry about that. For what it's worth, most of these security measures are coming from Davies' management, not us."

Joshua seated himself in a chair across from Mulder and took a deep breath. "I just want to give a good concert tonight--that's all, and don't give me shit about the vest."

Mulder glanced at the discarded safety measure sitting to his right. "I won't. I don't think you're likely to have anything to fear tonight. I'm keeping my eye out for tall gaunt men."

Joshua laughed despite himself, running a calming hand through his hair as he glanced over at the violin lying patiently in its open case. "Well, I'm as ready as I'll ever be. The orchestra will play the Mozart overture first and then, at twenty after eight, I'm on."

"Do you get nervous anymore?" Mulder asked.

"Not really," Joshua said, shaking his head. "I've played just about every major violin concerto in existence in front of a live audience. I know the Mendelssohn like I know my own heartbeat. It would play out of me even if Rome were burning down. But I do get excited. If you took my pulse right now you'd find it running at a good clip."

"I've had days like that," Mulder added. "I usually wind up going for a run to bring myself back in focus."

Joshua looked over at him with a somewhat daring expression. "You want to know what I do to focus before a performance?"

Mulder was uncertain as to what Joshua was about to tell him. "Sure."

Joshua stood up and opened the dressing room door. "Follow me."

###

Mulder followed Joshua down a long hall to an unmarked set of double doors somewhere deep in the back of Davies Hall. Joshua pushed them open and Mulder followed him up a long turning stairway. When they'd climbed about three flights, Joshua opened another smaller unmarked door to reveal a dark, narrow staircase heading straight up. It was blocked at the bottom by a tall gate.

"You can unlock the gate by tugging the chain like this," he showed him, pulling the gate open so they could ascend the stairs. "We'll need to be very quiet now," he said in a whisper, going carefully up the flight to a door at the top.

Joshua tapped lightly on the door and a man in a black t-shirt and headset opened it a crack and peered out.

"Joshua. I was wondering if we'd be seeing you tonight," he said, squinting at Mulder. "Who's this?"

"A friend," Joshua answered, giving Mulder a look he couldn't quite identify. "We'll be very quiet."

"All right, come on in," the man said, opening the door to them.

Mulder stepped into the dim room, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The ceiling was low, just barely clearing his head. The walls were covered in thick foam tiles. To his right was a set of shaded one-way windows. Stretched below the windows was a massive computerized control panel with hundreds of switches and blinking lights manned by the technician. They were in the main sound room.

Joshua was standing at the windows, waving Mulder over to him. "We're at the highest point in Davies right now," Joshua said, just over a whisper. "I like to come up here to watch the audience collect in the seats."

Mulder looked down through the glass and experienced a second of vertigo as his mind took in their new positioning. He had no idea they had climbed this high. You could see the entire concert hall from up here. An intercom system piped in the broadcasts of the technicians throughout the building along with a running background of the audience members beginning to wander into the Hall. Closed circuit televisions kept an eye on the main entrances so the sound men would have some idea of the assembling attendance.

"Take mic five down another three feet," a voice was heard saying through the comm line. "Mic five descending," replied the sound tech into his headset as he flipped a switch in the panel in front of him. Mulder could see a microphone on a long cable slowly descending from a small hole in the ceiling to join about four others dangling several feet down, hovering over the stage directly below.

"Are they recording tonight?" Mulder asked.

Joshua glanced his way from where he was standing close to the glass, serenely observing the miniature people below. "Yes, they're making a digital recording for EMI Classics all this week, so try not to sneeze between movements, okay?"

Mulder made a 'who me?' expression.

"Where are your seats?"

Mulder pulled his ticket from his coat pocket. "Lower orchestra, row A, seat 22. Scully has 23."

Joshua moved a step to the right, pointing down. "You'll be right there, near that woman in the green dress and feather collar. Front row, right below me. I always stand stage right, so the violin faces the audience and I can make eye contact with the conductor."

"You'll be within arm's reach should there be any problem," Mulder said.

Joshua nodded, and returned to the glass. "Look there, at that family coming in," Joshua said, pointing to the lower orchestra seats. A man and woman were leading their polished and fluffed boy and girl, maybe ages six and ten, up the aisle to look at the stage. A few orchestra members were out upon it already, warming up.

"I love seeing that. The children. It's so important to expose them to music as early as possible. I don't know if you're aware of this, Mulder, but learning music is like learning a language. You'll never be able to pass as a native speaker if you don't begin to make the proper vowel sounds before age five. Music is the same way. A child must begin to develop an ear before age six, or they'll never be able to attain perfect pitch and advance to the virtuoso level."

Mulder crossed his arms and leaned into the support between the panes, drawn to watching Joshua in profile, gazing down over his audience--a little like Zeus atop Mt. Olympus looking favorably upon his people.

"I've heard that term before. Perfect pitch. What does it mean, exactly?"

"Musicians with perfect pitch can pick a note out of the air and tell not only its place on the piano keyboard, but its exact intonation as well. Some people are born with it and, if trained, can maintain it throughout their lives. Some schools argue it can be taught. But I've only ever seen it in musicians who were given their first lessons before they knew how to read words or ride a bike."

"Do you have it?"

Joshua grinned. "Thanks to my grandfather, yes. The long warm-up notes you hear the oboe down there playing...that's middle C...now he's going to the D...and now a high D an octave above it." Mulder listened, but could barely detect the notes filtering in through the intercom. "Oboists are always worrying over their harmonics. You'll see them come out onstage first before the rest of the orchestra to fuss with the ill-tempered woodwind. See...look at that boy there now tugging at his father's arm," Joshua said, warmly. "He's telling him that's an oboe."

Mulder leaned in closer to the windows. He could see the boy, but could not hear the words. Joshua's sense of hearing must be truly exceptional to pick a child's voice out of the light jumble of gathering sound emitting from the speakers in the sound booth.

"I don't know how you could hear that."

Joshua smiled. "Years and years of practice."

"I can imagine the pursuit of music at this level takes tremendous dedication," Mulder said, seriously.

Joshua had a far-off look come over him as he began to relate another chapter from the story of his childhood to Mulder, his eyes flickering over the movements below. "When I was ten years old I came home from school one day to find my private violin instructor from the Philadelphia Conservatory sitting in our small living room, talking to my grandfather. They called me over to them, and I put my book bag down and came and stood before the man. He told me I had been invited to join a very special training program for young violinists. Outside, I could see the boys from my school running down the block throwing snowballs across the road at one another. This professor told me he would give me until the end of winter vacation to decide if I wanted to join their next semester after the holidays. But he also told me I needed to understand that the program would be very difficult. I would be expected to practice more than I ever had in my life--six hours a day, six days a week--no exceptions. I would have to leave my school and work with a tutor at home and do my homework in the evenings. He said he understood this was a big decision, but if I agreed to these things, he knew in his heart I would grow up to be one of the finest violinists in the world."

Joshua paused in inner reflection before he continued.

"I spent that winter holiday playing in the snow with my friends and in the evenings I spent a lot of time alone with my violin in my upstairs bedroom. My grandfather didn't say a word to me about it until New Year's Day when he sat me in his lap and took my hands in his. He told me there were two kinds of men in the world. There were men who went to school, grew up, raised families and lived very happily like everyone else, doing the best they could; and then there were men, very special men, who were willing to give up all the comforts of a simple life to have just one moment of true greatness. He said both men were equally honorable in the eyes of God. 'What do you choose, Joshua?' he asked, and in his eyes I could tell he would love me no matter what I became.

"I know he thought it was quite a lot to ask of an ten-year-old boy who barely knows the world, but for me the choice was very easy. Since I had first heard Grandpapa fiddling lullabies to me in my bassinet, every night when I closed my eyes to sleep, I heard the violin--in my dreams, whispering comforts to me in the voice of God. No sacrifice would be too much, I felt, as long as He continued to speak to me."

"Do you still hear Him?" Mulder asked after a beat of silence.

"I do," Joshua said, turning to him with a very honest expression. "Every day when I play, I go back to that ten-year-old boy and I remember what it was like to dream of this, this life I have, this ability to create a sound so complex and beautiful from such a simple instrument. There's something people don't realize about children--they put truth into their playing--it takes maturity to learn how to lie. I'm certain the day I forget the truth in my playing is the day God will abandon me."

"Then you'll need to hold onto that truth, Joshua. Never let it leave you."

Joshua gave a faint smile and resumed his place at the window, reaching out with the fingertips of his right hand as if to touch the tiny people below. "I know you have held on, Mulder, and I admire that more than you'll ever know--because I understand the sacrifice involved. You and I gave up throwing snowballs years before the other kids; and I suspect, like myself, you've never given it one moment of regret." 

*********************************

Chapter Seven: On the Ruins

*********************************

Applause for the overture. Waiting in the open wing, the soloist watches for the conductor's arm to extend and beckon him forward in a wordless introduction.

The instrument is under his arm and the bow dangles from his forefinger as he steps out onto the polished stage floor to the rising applause of the audience--filling the seats, boxes, tiers, mezzanine, balcony and terrace with people he can sense, but cannot see as his eyes are filled with the brightness of the lights.

He comes forward upon the stage and turns to his right to face the Hall as he settles the wise wood of the Stradivarius under his chin and he breathes in its familiar mustiness. The clamor fades quickly as he lifts the bow over the strings, ready to begin. He makes eye contact with the conductor and the baton descends. Three brief beats of the Allegro molto and he sweeps the first dotted quarter note from the violin.

For over 150 years the Mendelssohn concerto has been performed countless times by countless musicians, but never before has it been performed quite the way this musician plays it as the microphones catch the occurrence overhead.

He feels the meaning behind the notes as he plays them--their sensibility is a communication that he shares with the audience. The expression he chooses is not bound exclusively by the written notes; rather, he bends the basic framework laid out by the composer into his own understanding. It's the refinement of that inner expression that marks a virtuoso.

The four fingers of his left hand press the strings precisely against the smooth black neck of the violin--first position to second position and back to first--fingering the A, the C, the B flat, running the tip of his smallest finger up the neck to catch the high E before descending to drop into the low D a half breath later. The hairs pull flat against the strings making them sing. The bow moves smoothly, and never rushes. It drops and climbs and strikes and chatters across the strings. These are a thousand tiny movements and adjustments made per second that are scarcely distinguishable to the eye. Only the ear can pull the resulting vibrations he feels under his chin and hands into focus; the rest is instinct--the meaning behind the music, the contents of his heart. 

### 

In the seats directly below, a listener falls prey to the voice speaking on the stage. For all the many things he has seen in the world, there are few that have made him wonder so much at the impossibility of what he is witnessing, the ability to bring something so complex as a concerto to life.

The sound of violin he's heard before in modest space is now echoing off the second floor balcony and reflecting off the sound deflection shields hanging high over the stage as the orchestra quiets and the musician begins his cadenza. His solo voice begins in low phrases of flirting statements and brash recapitulations culminating into rapid-fire arpeggios--a full seven note chord struck note for note in faster and faster succession until the tones become one, the spaces between them melting into solid sound.

The Andante begins a minute later, the bassoon carrying the audience into the second, slower movement. The sounds are warm and loving, unashamed. There is a wonderful moment where the solo changes and divides into two separate melodic lines, as if two violins were playing to one another, but there is only one pair of hands creating the sound. The bow is pulling two strings at once as the fingers hold the double stop to play two lines against each other. The result is a seamless duet.

The listener turns his head slightly to watch her where she sits next to him. She is almost smiling as she listens. She looks unguarded, peaceful. She hasn't looked that way to him in years. 

**************************************

The Cliff House   
Land's End   
11:30 PM

"Oh God, please don't tell that story."

Joshua sat at the head of the table, hiding his face in his hands laughing, as the man to his right, a cellist formerly with the New York Philharmonic, set about sharing an old tale of their past antics together.

"We were playing Radio City, a Christmas Beethoven Festival, during one of the worst storms in recorded history in New York," said the cellist, smiling as Joshua peered up, giving him a 'you wouldn't dare' look.

"That was in '93, right?" someone bellowed from the far end of the long table, ringed with an assemblage of raucous orchestra members and friends, who had instructed Joshua's driver to detour him here to Land's End for an after-hours surprise 30th birthday feast. Bits of roasted lamb and wild rice with glazed carrots still stuck to the edges of the nearly emptied china plates. Gold helium balloons were tied to their chairs, floating, while the champagne was flowing freely.

"Ninety-three, or -four, doesn't matter," the cellist continued, taking another generous swig from his own glass. "Joshua was playing the Triple Concerto with Yang Kikumo and who was that pianist...?"

Joshua sighed, defeated. "That lunatic Austrian...Helmut...something." He leaned toward Mulder who was, incidentally, the only completely sober man in the room; which was good considering he was also the only one armed. "I have no idea what he's talking about; he's gravely mistaken," Joshua said, poorly defending himself. Mulder hid a grin and took his last bite of lamb so the waiters could clear his plate for the dessert service. He was going to be doing a lot more running back in D.C. after this case to make up for all the fine dining.

"Ah, my good friend Helmut Schratz, how we miss him here in the States. Will he ever return?" someone melodramatically lamented from Mulder's side of the table.

"Not after Radio City. It nearly ruined his career!" chuckled another.

"Anyway," the cellist continued, for those who were unfamiliar with the story, "after the concert, which was dreadfully long as most Beethoven festivals are--When will they learn you can't play all nine symphonies and five piano concertos in one night?--the storm had grown so fierce that the guests were advised to stay inside until it settled some."

"That would have been fine if the fire marshal didn't have this issue with people staying in their seats," added Joshua, still feigning ignorance.

"Exactly," said the cellist. "So our conductor, Maestro Thompson, was asked to drag the soloists back out onstage for a little light entertainment to keep folks calm and seated."

"Christmas carols!" someone yelled out.

"Yes! Christmas carols were requested. So Maestro Thompson came back into the green room to find the Beethoven Three, who had unfortunately found the hot pot of mulled wine several hours earlier."

Joshua ran a hand through his hair as laughter skittered about the room. "This is not making me look good right now, is it? I swear I wouldn't have touched the stuff if I knew we were going to go back on. And it wasn't my fault Helmut decided to slip half a bottle of spiced Austrian Schnapps into it either."

"You knew about the Schnapps, Joshua. You were in the room when he did it."

"Bullshit! I swear I never saw that man do a thing! He was insane; he used to practice the Triple Concerto backwards, note for note--what the hell good does that do? I tried to avoid being in the same room with him if I could help it."

"So after a few rushed minutes of bow tie straightening and splashes of cold water, the men were brought back onstage..."

Joshua leaned toward Mulder again, tonight's bowtie long undone, pretending to fill just him in on the sordid details. "Someone had found a set of flashing reindeer antlers and snapped them on my head just as I went out. I was so distracted trying to find my bow, that I didn't even realize it."

"Flashing his Rudolph best," the cellist said over the mounting giggles, "Joshua proceeded to attempt to lead the two in a rousing rendition of Jingle Bells, in diverse keys."

"Now the part you fail to appreciate, my friend," Joshua said interrupting him, "is that Kikumo only spoke Japanese and Helmut only knew German or Dutch or Latin or some other useless language. I'd like to get my hands on the fool who thought it would be a good idea to send an English-speaking Jewish violinist out to teach a Buddhist cellist and an legally insane agnostic pianist the correct key for 'Little Town of Bethlehem.'"

The cellist patted Joshua's arm affectionately as the group had a hearty laugh at his expense. "It was not your finest hour, that's for certain. But to make it all better there was a columnist and photographer from the New York Times snowbound as well."

Joshua downed the last of his champagne and set the glass back down rim first on the tablecloth like a shot glass. "You had to mention that, didn't you?"

"Front page, Christmas morning, there was a full-color spread of Joshua and his merry trio fumbling their way through "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," laughed the cellist.

Joshua looked sheepishly at Mulder. "They caught me in full antler-blink. Remember, I have to live in that city."

Mulder smiled and accepted a cup of cappuccino from the waiter. "So is this what they call musician humor?"

The cellist leaned forward on his elbows. "I have one for you, Mulder. What's the difference between a trombonist and a dead snake in the road?"

Mulder took a sip of espresso. "I'm afraid to ask."

"The snake was on his way to a gig!"

Both the cellist and Joshua found that hilarious as they laughed heartily over it.

"Okay, I'll gladly admit I don't 'get' that one," Mulder said good-humoredly.

"That's okay, Mulder. You'd have to be a trombonist to really appreciate the subtleties of that joke," Joshua said. "And thank God none are present."

The lights were dimmed then as a quartet of waiters came out singing "Happy Birthday," carrying a sparkling-candled German chocolate cake. The throng joined in as the dessert was set before the special guest, flinging sparks on the tablecloth. Joshua made a valiant effort to blow them out a few times before he got smart and plucked them off like Fourth of July sparklers and doused them in his water glass.

"German chocolate...everything with you is German," someone teased. "You play Beethoven, Brahms, Bach--where's the Russians?"

Joshua looked up from his task of making the first cut into the cake. "I've played the Tchaikovsky."

"Once," the heckler insisted.

"Fair enough; I guess I don't care much for that concerto. I'd play Rachmaninov if he'd bothered to write for violin, or Stravinsky if it didn't call for whacking on the instrument with the back of my bow...Here, who needs this knife?"

The waiter took the knife and the cake away to serve it up as the maitre'd stepped up to Joshua to let him know he had a private call. "I'll be right back," he said, licking caramel icing from his fingers. "Eat, everyone, please."

Mulder was halfway through his square of cake when Joshua reappeared, holding up a champagne glass and clinking it with a knife to get everyone's attention.

"Distinguished ladies and gentlemen of San Francisco. As much as I am honored by the offer to assume the roll of concertmaster next season, I'm afraid I'll have to politely decline," he announced, barely controlling a smile. "It would seem I'm being shipped out to some rag-tag band of fiddlers in Vienna next January for an eighteen-month world tour."

Joshua was plainly ecstatic as his party guests whooped and rose from their seats to congratulate him in his success with cheers and a round of bumbling hugs and handshakes.

*********************************

12:15 AM 

Mulder stood in the Cliff House's first floor hallway, reading the framed vintage newspaper headlines covering the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906, and waiting for Joshua and his driver to finish gathering his coat and gifts.

Presently, he saw two men approach him on their way to the facilities.

"Mulder, right?"

Mulder turned away from the yellowed newsprint to accept the man's handshake.

"Steven and I would like to congratulate you and Joshua on this tour. You must be very excited," the man said, suddenly wrapping Mulder in a hearty hug.

Mulder was a bit stunned at the burst of affection, as the man broke the hug and "Steven" took a turn shaking his hand.

"Yes, thank you," he said, not bothering to correct them. With his FBI identity hidden, it was an honest mistake. One can't expect to seen out and about with a man every night in San Francisco and not fall under that assumption. He just hadn't been expected to be slapped on the back for it. He smiled politely as they went on their way. 

###

Ten minutes later, Mulder was helping Joshua's driver load the gift boxes into the back of the limo.

"Here's the last of them," Joshua said, handing his driver a final bag. "God, would you look at that?"

Mulder followed Joshua's gaze down the cliffside to the ocean below. The waves were breaking against what looked like the crumbling walls of an ancient ruin. The moon was reflecting in some of the shallow pools formed between the decapitated concrete foundations.

"What is all that?" Mulder asked.

"It's what's left of the Sutro Baths from the 1890s. We should have a closer look. Come on," he said, brushing Mulder's coat sleeve before starting down the nearby path into the darkness.

Mulder eyed the ever-patient driver. "I guess we'll be right back," he said and fished inside his coat for his flashlight.

###

Joshua must have been down this path many times before to be able to navigate it so well in the dim moonlight, Mulder thought, stepping over a thick root in the trail. He could just see him reaching the base of the cliffside and disappearing behind a stone wall.

"Hold up," he shouted, skipping the last of the switch-backs and crunching through the iceplant. Joshua was waiting for him just beyond the bend, standing beside a broken block of cement, its rusted and twisted rebar reaching toward the night sky. "I don't think you want to fall on one of those."

Joshua gave him a mischievous look and Mulder followed him through the foundation maze, working their way closer to the sea. The smell of pooled algae was thick in the cold air as the wind whipped off the rolling waves. "Step up here," Joshua said as he climbed up onto a tumbled cement block to reach the high edge of a wall. "You can see better from up here."

Mulder climbed the broken block until he came to stand next to Joshua. The musician moved about on the three-foot-wide shelf, pointing out landscapes in the crumbling remains.

"This was the mineral bath here, the long rectangle. Over there, behind it, was the men's private bath. The Baths were built just before the Turn-of-the-Century and the men needed a place to recuperate from all those fine ladies in bloomers, you know," he winked and continued, pointing out toward the sea. "They built the world's longest salt water swimming pool out there along the shore; the sand's almost choked the outline now. Lifeguards patrolled it in rowboats. They used to host a small carnival in the dunes behind it: candied apples, bumper cars and pony rides--quite the place to take the kids on a Sunday afternoon... But it's all gone now. They took it all away," Joshua said, taking a small jump to the next wall so he could follow its outline to the last barrier before the ocean. Mulder caught up to him just in time to arrest his errant footing as he made his way to the far edge.

"Joshua!" Mulder grabbed his arm and righted him. In all his efforts to guard him, the last thing he needed was to let this man slip off a six-foot wall into the sea.

"I'm sorry," he laughed and Mulder released him as he straightened himself, keeping close. "I'm feeling very happy right now. I think...the champagne may have gone to my head."

From the look he was giving him, Mulder could swear he was about to be kissed, but before he could crack a joke about it, Joshua did just that--took him by the arm of his coat and kissed him softly just to the side of his mouth.

Mulder was stunned by both the abruptness and sincerity of the action.

"I'm sorry...I'm not..."

Joshua smiled like he'd been anticipating his reaction.

"I know you're not. That's all a part of why I find you so appealing." He smiled to himself and turned his face back into the sea wind. "You're not, and yet here you are."

Mulder looked down again to make sure he still had good clearance from the edge of the wall. This crumbling San Franciscan ruin was the last place he expected to be having this type of conversation--no decent footholds.

Joshua stood with his hands folded inside his coat, warming himself. "When I first came to San Francisco I was paired with a 20-year-old accompanist," he said, looking out to sea. "He was a lot like me, uprooted, displaced. He was living with extended family, a cousin he'd never met, and when you're a young man alone in a big city for the first time, it's easy to become guarded.

"We didn't get along well at first. I think we were both trying to show off. He resented me for being sent on scholarship, but gradually something began to happen. We started spending a lot of time together and day by day really began to open up and become friends. Our playing improved as well, once we stopped fighting one another and realized our talents were put to better use when shared.

"We played to a standing ovation at Zellerbach Hall one summer. It was a wonderful feeling...something we didn't want to let go of. We became lovers that night and for many nights afterward. I wasn't too surprised; I'd felt it coming on for a long while. The fact I was with another man didn't surprise me nearly as much as the tenderness--to have someone who knows how you work make love to you, who knows how your body feels. I've had my share of straight relationships, but I've never really found that again."

Mulder squinted at the horizon; he could see the red and green lights on the fishing boats steaming back into port. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think you've felt it coming on for a while now, too."

Mulder let his eyes fall on the younger man standing next to him. Joshua was still looking off, giving him the space he needed to think this over. The problem was, he wasn't sure he wanted to think. Thinking had been getting him nowhere.

Mulder shuffled from one foot to the next, hearing the aging concrete surface crumbling in the gravel under his shoes. What he wanted, he decided, was to get down off this goddamn wall.

"I think we should go back," he said.

Joshua nodded his head slowly. "We'll go back." 

*******************************

In the car again it was quiet. The lights and colors of the party were gone and the space the virtuoso and his protector occupied was now dipped in shadows. Fleeting beams of street lamps flickered over their faces at they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Mulder was seated in the corner, trying to slip back and shut his eyes, feigning some kind of fatigue if for nothing else than to convince his heart to slow down. It was becoming uncomfortably warm in his coat, but he didn't want to attract the other man's attention by removing it.

Joshua sat with his face turned in profile, his thumb knuckle pressed to his lower lip as he watched the dark store fronts shuffle by. Mulder couldn't help but glance over at him. A part of him wanted the violinist to keep his gaze away, while another part, a more urgent part, wanted him to turn his head and ask him one more time.

"I didn't get to wish you a happy birthday..." Mulder was surprised to hear himself say.

It broke the man sitting next to him and he rolled his head back against the seat with a small indeterminable sound and his eyes, those deep blue eyes were on him, saying everything they'd been trying to hide for the last week--in that look was the simple agony of want.

Joshua's arm came up along the back of the seat. His fingertips came to rest at the nape of Mulder's neck where they paused to touch the curve of his jaw before slipping back into the fine hairs behind his ear.

Mulder closed his eyes and just let himself feel the caress as it stirred the tiny hairs and smoothed against the base of his skull, around and around slowly, precisely. It was electric, shooting sparks of feeling through a system that had shut itself down long ago. The central core was beginning to respond, and respond with a vengeance.

He felt the young man shift, coming to sit almost against him, laying his palm against his cheek. He felt him lean in and the warm softness of his lips touched his jaw, his neck, below his ear--small gentle kisses, nudging their way under his chin until a warm wet tongue traced the underridge of his lobe. Mulder flinched and emitted a small sound and the musician whispered, "Open your eyes..."

He opened his eyes and this time what he saw didn't scare him half as much. Deep down he felt he could trust this man. Joshua kissed his cheekbone, then kicked the intercom on with his foot. "Driver, take us up Embarcadero...but don't exit."

Mulder soon began to understand that once you stop fighting, the surrender is almost a blessing. The need to belong, to be accepted into this man's life, was so powerful it equaled the compulsion of arousal. Indeed, Mulder knew himself to be aroused, pushed to the brink with such intensity he no longer remembered the reasons why this was supposed to be wrong. He let his head fall back against the seat and gave himself over freely to the touch of Joshua's fine manipulative hands, slipping loose the knot of his tie, undoing another tight button at his neck and another, lower--taking his time to touch his exposed skin with kisses and brushes of his nose. He felt warm fingertips slipping through the cotton of his shirt to graze his skin with small callouses that marked the man by occupation.

A musician's practiced hands stroked his belly as his shirt hung open, the fingers felt their way along the patch of hair to his belt. Mulder turned his head suddenly in a mixed response of acquiescence and doubt. His nose in Joshua's hair, he could smell the man where his head lay against his shoulder, under his chin, a tongue licking its way down his throat. He didn't know where to put his hands, so he kept them off--one on the door, one on the back of the seat. It mattered that he do this right, he felt; it mattered that he not offend the man; it mattered that he cared enough to want him; and then nothing mattered as his belt slipped free and those searching hands found him hard and ready.

###

The things you see. The things your eyes come to focus on when the brain has slipped are what Mulder would remember later. Up some forgotten street they had passed a gang of dangerous children, running up toward the car as it sped past them. A white cat bright as sunlight walked along the back of a fence. An old man carrying a baguette stepped off the curb into a puddle as he crossed the street. A streetwalker in a pink sequined top, standing with her friend under a browned street lamp, smiled at him where his forehead had connected, pressed against the glass of the window looking out, looking at everything--until his eyes rolled back into his head and he came.

***************************

Another window. Joshua found him looking out again through the windows of his flat--standing staring at the water, at the empty street. He'd been so quiet, hardly a sound had escaped him that long circuitous ride home in the car. Mulder's shirt was still unbuttoned, hanging loosely like a curtain opening to the perfect sculpture of his chest.

"You look good in blue," Joshua said, approaching him slowly. "Very few men do." He came and stood behind the man and took the shirt by the collar, slipping it off of him. He kissed his bared shoulder and let his hands run down the curve of his back. Mulder had done-up his pants before leaving the car, the beads of sweat across his upper lip the only remaining indication he'd been pleasured just moments before. Joshua still felt the ache in his jaw from the effort it took to bring him to climax. It was nothing compared to the unsatisfied ache he felt for wanting this man; but where this elusive FBI agent had shown patience with him, he was fully willing to make the return sacrifice. He slipped a hand deep into Mulder's left pocket and felt him there, rising.

Mulder turned his head, with a look of wonder and confusion. "What are you doing to me?" he whispered. Joshua pressed against him, letting him feel his own hard need.

"I'm helping you feel again."

***************************

Naked, they sat together on the hard piano bench, straddling it. Joshua had pulled it into the center of the bare floor, and removing his clothes, sat upon it, beckoning Mulder to join him.

Joshua's cock, slick from its own emissions, was thrusting firmly against the small of his back while the musician's tongue and lips worked their way around the muscles and slopes of his back and shoulders.

The violinist's hands were between his thighs, urging them apart as his fingers slipped low under his balls, caressing them gently with each firm thrust against his back.

It was bizarre, different, incomprehensible--yet undeniably erotic. In truth, Mulder had never known himself to be so easily seduced; to have someone he'd known for so little time bring him to such an extreme with so little fight.

Joshua's hands had left him and only one arm gripped him fully about the waist as the man moaning softly behind him jerked and let go a gasp as his warm fluid released, running down between them, down the small of his back where they sat pressed together. 

********************************* 

The moon moved into view through the wall of glass. It cast a pale light over the back of the quiet Steinway onto the floor, dragging the shadows of the turned legs to the edge of the bed where two long bodies lay against one another--leg to leg, arm over arm, draped in lazy serenity against each other.

An indeterminable amount of time passed before Mulder opened his eyes to see Joshua looking down at him, his head propped by an elbow, his other hand moving over the surface of Mulder's chest.

"Was I asleep?" he asked, lifting his head, fearful that their exertions had knocked him completely out of his sense of duty.

"Yes, but I stayed awake. It's okay. You didn't sleep long. Your gun's right over on the dresser."

Mulder closed his eyes and rested his head back against Joshua's arm, letting himself give into the languidity of post-pleasure bliss. Soon, he felt lips kissing his temple and he opened his eyes again. Joshua looked as pleased as he was, if not more so, and he'd barely touched the man tonight. He needed to make up for that. Now that they were relaxed, perhaps he could put aside his insecurity and find the courage to give back a small portion of what had been offered to him.

Mulder shifted up onto his elbow in like fashion and returned the touching down Joshua's smooth stomach to his groin, brushing the man's lighter skin with the back of his hand. Something that had puzzled him earlier now became obvious in the moonlight. The man was virtually hairless. It made him look younger in an odd way--maturely pre-pubescent. Mulder let his thumb pass over the bared scrotum; the skin contracted and loosened under his touch.

"I suppose I'll need to explain that," Joshua said, letting his leg slip back over his knee so Mulder could continue to discover him. "I shave my testicles," he said with a nervous grunt. "Damn, for some reason it sounds ridiculous when explaining it to a man. Women don't mind. They generally prefer not getting a mouthful of hair, and I enjoy the freedom."

Mulder looked up at his new lover in this beautifully awkward moment and for the first time tonight felt almost at ease lying naked in bed with another man. He smiled despite himself and shifted lower on the bed. "I guess I'll have to test that theory."

Joshua shut his eyes and let his head fall back onto the pillow as Mulder rotated his wrist to take his naked scrotum fully in hand. "Please do."

Up close and personal, Mulder had to admit the sight of male genitalia didn't do a whole lot for him. But holding Joshua's maleness gently in the palm of his hand did give him a sense of excitement, knowing that he could touch this man in a way that was familiar to himself. He let his hand slide over the naked sac and slip loosely around the younger man's half-filled penis. He squeezed and tugged gently, feeling his own arousal beginning to rebuild up out of restfulness as the organ in his hand grew longer and fuller, stiffening at his touch.

"Turn this way," Joshua whispered, brushing his hip and Mulder complied, aligning his own burgeoning erection against the violinist's perfect mouth.

It began with stroking and touching, Joshua mirroring his moves as they entered the mutual serenade. Then with an introductory kiss, Mulder let his mouth open to him, uncertain of his accuracy, yet giving it his best try. Joshua aided him in silent duplicate instruction--if it was too much he let him feel it, if it was too little, he let him feel the frustration as well. Step by step a method was formed as the minutes ticked by until distracted by arousal to the point of mindlessness, both men began to communicate their needs through deep sucking mouthfuls and firm twisting grips slickened by salivation for one another's climax. Joshua was first to release, moaning in intense appreciation, keeping the reciprocation earnest and constant though his contractions. Mulder felt the sensation and bitter taste of come on his tongue and quickly swallowed it, forgetting the temporary foreignness as his own gripping peak reached him so much easier and more lovingly than the night's first orgasmic struggle. He clutched the man's ass with a groan and pushed his own hips into his face until his ejaculation ceased.

Mulder rolled over onto his back and looked up at the high ceiling and track lighting rails. As much as he knew this was not the most conservative thing he had done during working hours, he wasn't about to regret it, either. It was about time he got paid to get fucked in a manner that pleased him. And he was surprised at how much it pleased him.

"I never thought I'd find myself like this," he admitted, still tasting the echoes of the other man's climax in the recesses of his mouth. It was a little unnerving, but just a moment earlier, he'd found the flavor of an aroused cock as sweet as a woman and not particularly different.

"Most men don't," Joshua replied, shifting to rest the soft waves of his hair against Mulder's hip. The tips of his fingers brushed over Mulder's abdomen--the gentle strokes keeping the nerves registering the euphoria of release in his groin and belly alive and reverberating. "For some reason we're taught it's wrong to share emotions with other men. We're not allowed to cry or love one another. It's ridiculous. Why shouldn't we be allowed to show affection?"

The affection concept was something that Mulder felt he could understand, and focused his swirling feelings on it. Never in his life had he been emotionally close to anyone of his own sex, not his father, not his peers, and certainly not any of the Gunmen. A vision of Frohike in a fluffy vest and tutu pirouetted through his head and he laughed.

"What?" Joshua sounded like he wanted to be let in on the joke.

"I'm sorry," he chuckled. "It's just that I don't believe I could quite reach this level of intimacy with any of my current male friends even if I wanted to. I think attraction has something to do with it as well."

He raised his head to catch Joshua's shy flattered smile. He hated to shatter the moment, but now that their sexual cravings had abated he felt he'd best reassume the roll of Federal agent before he fell asleep again. The thought of Scully walking in at 4AM finding them wrapped up in one another was more than he could process at this time. He sat up and swung his legs over the end of the bed. He didn't have the slightest idea how to explain this to her and figured it was a much better plan if she just didn't find out. "I'd better get dressed," he said and Joshua nodded compliantly. Mulder knew from his expression the man would rather he stayed in bed next to him and it touched him.

Mulder stood and collected his clothing, which had made itself at home across Joshua's armchairs, couch and piano. The imprint of two asses was still visible on the polished black piano bench. Evidence, he thought, and ran his shirt quickly over it.

Joshua rolled over sleepily to watch him dress. Mulder had his pants and shoes back on and was working with his shirt buttons and tie when he felt the need to ask. "You never told me what happened to your lover."

"You mean, what happened to the man, or how did it end?"

Mulder looped the tie over, beginning the knot. "How did it end?"

Joshua slipped his bare arm under the pillow and adjusted himself more comfortably against it. "His family ran out of money. Tuition was too high. He didn't make scholarship and was sent back to New Jersey. I never saw or heard from him again."

"I see," Mulder said, and cinched the knot up snugly against his throat.

*********************************

Chapter Eight: A Locked Box

*********************************

Water was all around him as far as he could see. He was a child floating in the Sutro salt water pool hundreds of feet long with thousands of other kids suited in white and black striped suits and billowy long bloomers. In his inflated water-wings he could paddle without fearing his legs being too short to touch the sandy bottom.

He heard the call of the carnival barkers and the squeals of the other kids and he splashed around to face the shore. The bumper cars were beeping and the ponies were walking in a slow continuous circle in their corral, following the sandy rump ahead of them.

"Joshua!"

Someone was calling his name. It was a man. He kicked forward trying to find the voice among the swimmers.

"Joshua! Get out of the water!"

The voice sounded worried and he began to get scared. He tried to kick toward shore, but the faster he'd paddle and splash, the farther the dunes became. He began to cry out for help and soon he saw one of the lifeguards rowing steadily toward him in a rowboat, his back to him as he worked the oars. He was wearing a long black coat as he rowed along side him. The man reached into the water for him and pulled his small child's frame up and into the boat.

The boy sat back and coughed, wiping the water from his eyes. The man was wearing a suit and tie; he was tugging at Joshua's arm.

"Joshua, show me your hands."

The child's arms lifted at his command and the fingers at the ends of them were twisted and black. 

**************************************

Marina Flat   
10:00 AM   
Saturday 

Joshua woke slowly. His mind wanted to wake and shake the dark images from the recent dream, but his body was too lazy to reply properly and he merely flopped over, planting his face in the pillow next to him. A faint masculine scent reached his nose and his lower body decided to inform him it was high time to get up.

He opened his eyes, emitting a hazy moan. He felt terrible, and he felt incredible. Fortune had indeed spun her wheel in his favor last night. He'd had everything a man could hope for in a birthday: a good performance, good friends, good news, and plenty of food, drink...and sex. Now the resulting hangover from a night well-lived was making his mouth feel like spun cotton, and his head like the bottom of a kettle drum. He was fuzzy enough at that moment to forget he was sharing the space with a woman as he threw the covers back and stood up, walking stiffly toward the bath.

Agent Scully gave a polite little cough for his benefit.

Joshua froze mid-stride. Scully was sitting on the couch as usual; this time she really appeared to be involved in the paperwork she held in her lap.

"Oh, sorry. Good morning, Scully."

"Good morning, Joshua," she replied pleasantly, keeping her eyes on her work. Now both agents knew he carried a shorn scrotum. Joshua hurried into the bathroom and shut the door.

###

A long hot shower, a shave, and a couple tall glasses of orange juice later, Joshua was feeling a good deal more himself as he joined Scully at the couch to look at some mail she had brought him from the field office.

"How's your wound?" she asked him as he took a seat next to her, only half-dressed in his robe and a pair of loose slacks. He pulled the robe from his shoulder so she could examine it. He could feel the tickle of her fingertips as she touched the skin around the pink ridge of the stitched cut. He wished it was still Mulder's touch, but he supposed he'd have to wait until later this evening to even talk to him. Joshua had a matinee performance today at 2:30.

"It looks like it's doing well. You're keeping it bandaged when you go out?"

"Yes, are you and Mulder coming to the show again today?"

"No, we have some work to see to. I think Dillmont and another SF agent will be joining you this afternoon. I enjoyed your performance last night; it was magnificent."

Joshua tried to hide his disappointment at the prospects of lounging in the green room with Dillmont as he thanked her for the compliment. He pulled his robe back on and reclined into the cushions to leaf through the stack of mail. Every last one had been opened and resealed with a flimsy strip of clear tape, courtesy of the Federal Government.

"They didn't find anything unusual in your recent mail. As far as we know, Schmidt was the last suspect to send anything through the US Post Office. It also appears that Harris has stopped writing. Mulder arranged to give Harris access to another pencil, but he's yet to use it."

Joshua looked up from flipping through his assortment of bills, letters and birthday cards. "Why do you think they've stopped?"

"We're not sure, exactly," she said, slipping her notes back into a file. "But they do appear to stop writing over time--perhaps after they've ceased to be useful."

"Is that your theory or Mulder's?" he asked with a grin.

She returned the good humor. "Mulder's, but I'd be inclined to agree with him in this instance."

Joshua decided their casual repartee might be accepting of a little probing. "How long have you been working with Agent Mulder?"

"Almost seven years," she answered with reverence.

"That's a long time," Joshua acknowledged. "Pardon my asking, but as a scientist, what drew you to Mulder's work?"

Scully sat up straighter, looking forward into the light of the windows. "At first, I was assigned to him. Then over time I developed an interest in the work, became invested."

"Six years is quite a commitment to make for something you don't believe in."

Scully turned her head, considering his statement. "I may not believe in Mulder's theories, but I do believe in Mulder. He's a tough act to pass up. I guess I want to see how it ends."

Joshua nodded, pleased with the answer. "I imagine it will be quite a curtain call." Scully smiled lightly and dropped her eyes to her work--there was more to her story, but she wasn't about to divulge its plot. Joshua let her off the hook and busied himself with his mail. There was quite a lot of it. He breezed past most of the business-related items, spending his time reading the birthday cards and standing them up on the coffee table one by one until something caught his eye. There was a long envelope from the Philadelphia Westbridge Bank with URGENT-FINAL NOTICE typed in red across it. He popped the tape off and opened the head letter.

"Dear Sir: Since we have not received word from your representatives, it is our duty by state law to take possession of the property at 10056 Hampshire Lane and proceed with the auctioning of your unclaimed possessions held at this address...."

Joshua couldn't believe his eyes, and gave them a good rub before continuing. Then he read the letter again from the beginning just to make sure it wasn't last night's champagne still talking.

"Something wrong?" Scully asked, picking up on his distress.

"Yes...it would appear I'm no longer a resident of Pennsylvania."

"What's happened?"

Joshua stuffed the letter back into the envelope in disgust. "There must be some mistake. The Westbridge Bank says I've defaulted on my loan. They've taken my property *and* my personal effects which will soon be sold to the highest bidder."

"Are you having financial difficulties?"

Joshua shook his head in an amazed negative. "Last time I checked, I was gainfully employed. Not to mention I'm about to sign a rather impressive contract with the Vienna Philharmonic. Dammit! I have a Louis XIV harpsichord at that address."

"Are your other properties in good standing?"

"Yes, the flat in New York and this one here," he said, indicating their surroundings, "I own outright. The Philadelphia property is a new purchase. I have it on a short-term loan. Somehow, $60,000 has vanished. I need to call Nanette right away."

Scully pulled out her cellphone and offered it to Joshua. He took it and dialed his manager and waited anxiously while the phone rang and rang, unanswered. Joshua beeped it off, and glanced at his watch. "She's not home and I have to be at Davies in under two hours."

"We could go by there on your way to the Hall," Scully suggested.

Joshua stood up to go finish dressing. "Good idea. I'd like to get over to her house as soon as possible." 

*****************************************

1034 Sloat Blvd.   
12:45 PM 

Nanette lived between the ocean and the zoo in the Parkside district, away from the main bustle of the city. The land leveled off at this southern end of the San Francisco peninsula, allowing the scent of sea foam, giraffe and eucalyptus to blow freely through the streets. Scully parked outside the narrow two-story Victorian, positioned flush to the neighboring bay windowed homes that were the city's architectural trademark.

Joshua exited the car, bank letter in hand, and jogged up the steps to ring the bell. He waited, but there was no answer. Nanette wasn't expecting him and she might have hopped aboard MUNI to do some shopping for the morning. Scully joined him at the front landing.

"No one home?"

"No, but I do have a key," he said, pulling out a small chain of keys and unlocking the front door.

They stepped inside and Joshua called out for Nanette, but there was nobody home.

"Her coat and bag are gone," he said, pointing to the empty coat rack as he turned to shut the door behind them.

"Are you going to leave her a note?" Scully asked, following Joshua up the hardwood floor hallway to a large room at the back of the house where Nanette kept her office.

"Yes, but I'd also like to have a look around." Joshua knew Scully could tell he was just a little suspicious, and she took up the unspoken suggestion to help him inspect the room.

Joshua started with the writing desk set next to the chintz-curtained window. The desk was an antique from the turn-of-the-century, filled with tiny drawers and slots for arranging papers and checks and receipts. Nana managed his personal expenses, credit cards and traveling arrangements. An accountant in New York handled his investments, properties and taxes, but ultimately it was Nanette's job to make sure he kept up with all the payments. He wondered which end of the financial duo had dropped the ball.

Nothing seemed amiss as he pulled out and replaced the contents of each cubby. Behind him, he could hear Scully fingering through the items on the bookshelf and wall desk, dragging open the heavy oak drawers.

"Joshua?"

He jumped a little at the sound of her voice. Why was he so nervous? "Yes?"

"There's a lock box in the bottom drawer of this desk; do you know what's in it?"

Joshua came over to peek down at the green metal box. "I have no idea," he answered, bending over to lift it onto the desk. It wasn't heavy, but did sound like it was filled with something. "It's locked all right."

Scully pulled out a lockpick. "I thought this might come in handy here," she said, and in a moment the box top popped open. Joshua lifted the lid; inside he found a stack of old yellowed papers and warped photographs, decades old. He pulled them out one by one, turning them over carefully as some were bible-page-thin and brittle to the touch. There were letters written in both French and Russian dating back to the 1920s and 30s; and two birth certificates, one for Nanette, and another, an old, partially burned synagogue document handwritten in Cyrillic. Of the stained and faded sepia-tone photos, there were pictures of an old farm in winter; a photo of a young girl with bows in her hair and long strings of pearls around her neck; two women in kerchiefs picking flowers; and finally a photo of two young farmers, standing arm in arm, smiling, with a large tractor behind them. There was a caption at the bottom of this photo, written in aged-brown ink. Joshua recognized the only Russian he could read, his grandfather's name--Ivan Segulyev.

"That's my grandfather," he said to Scully, pointing to the photo's lettering.

"Which man?"

Joshua shook his head. He'd never seen a photo of his grandfather young, without the long beard. "I don't know. I can't recognize him, only his name. By his age, this must have been taken before he left the Ukraine."

Scully pulled out the Russian birth announcement, holding its place in the stack so it could be slipped back in. "Is this your grandfather's, too?"

Joshua looked it over again. The birth year was 1913, one year too late. He did not see his grandfather's name on the document. "No. I don't know who that belongs to."

"Was Nanette ever married?" Scully asked.

"Yes, for a brief period to a man here in San Francisco while I was away on tour. He was ill; he died before I ever met him. I think Nana married him so she could stay in the US and he could have someone to take care of him in his last days."

"Do you remember his name?"

"It was Barry Anderson. Nanette kept his last name."

"Was he from Russia, originally?"

Joshua thought it over. "No. I don't think so. Funny, but I never even saw a picture of him."

"I think we should give some of these documents a closer look, Joshua. But I can't be responsible for them; that would be an illegal seizure."

Joshua understood. "I'll take them, then. We can copy them, and I'll put them back before she knows they're gone."

Joshua found a large manila envelope and carefully slid the contents of the lock box into it, folding over the top while Scully slipped the emptied box back into the bottom drawer, closing it tight. "I think we'd better get out of here," he said, and Scully agreed. 

****************************************

1:30 PM

"I'll call you back after my performance. Just get out to Philadelphia as soon as you can. Thank you...I hope it's all a misunderstanding, too." Joshua set the cellphone back on the dash as Scully drove him up to Davies.

"Well, this is strange...I don't know how much of that you caught, but Nanette asked my accountant to turn over the handling of the Philadelphia property in a signed letter from myself about five months ago--around the time the bank stopped receiving the payments. I'm concerned she may have forged my signature. I know she knows how to do that; it's been useful in getting things done while I'm out of reach, at least until now."

"I can see where that ability might leave room for abuse," Scully commented.

Joshua let out a perturbed sigh. "I know she must have a very good reason. Perhaps I am in some kind of financial bind and she'd rather I didn't find out until the end of my California concert series. But why she didn't tell me earlier...? God, I can't even think about this right now. I have downbeat in under an hour."

"You realize, Joshua, that however well-meaning Nanette's motives may be, she's probably been hiding more than a few unpleasant notices from you. Have you wondered how many threat letters she might have intercepted?"

"I have been thinking about that," Joshua said, shifting nervously, trying to maintain composure over his growing uneasiness. "I keep telling myself she's just been trying to protect me, but sixty thousand dollars... She's never handled my large assets, nor taken an interest in them--it just doesn't make sense."

"Are you assuming she embezzled the funds?"

"I hope not. If she needed money, all she needed to do was ask--she knows that. What disturbs me even more, ironically, is the photo of my grandfather. I know he purposely didn't keep any photos of himself prior to his arrival in the US. He was always afraid someone would find him and drag him back, even after he became naturalized. I have no idea what she's doing with one locked in a box in her office."

"If there's anything I've learned from my years as an agent, Joshua, it's that people are often not what they seem."

Joshua pulled at a stray thread on his shirt sleeve, snapping it off. "I realize that, but as an artist I *need* to be able to completely rely on my representatives, especially during a performance run. Thus far this week, my handlers have only served to further complicate my life."

"I'll assure you, that Mulder and I are trying to do everything we can to reverse that."

Joshua caught himself just short of saying something he shouldn't. If anyone was guilty of complicating his life, it was himself. He wondered if Mulder was awake yet and if he was feeling the multi-layers of distraction, too. 

****************************************

Marriott Hotel   
1:35 PM

"...you were stolen from us...your life is not your own...we have been searching...we have found you...we were sacrificed for you...you are the one...stop before we stop you...see what you will not see...see where you came from...you are us..."

"...bury the grain and slaughter the livestock...we are hungry..."

The phrases had variations, but the strips of paper Mulder was working with simplified and condensed into more or less one message. Except, of course, the lines of Russian.

Mulder rolled over on the bed onto his back and stared up at the blank ceiling. He was showered and dressed, but Scully was late getting over to meet him. Her delay was fortunate, because he needed this time to try and assimilate last night's rather unexpected detour. Was it just a case of being caught in the right frame of mind? he wondered. Or am I completely losing my mind? One thing he did know for certain: last night Joshua had taken him to bed and he'd offered no protest. He hadn't been this surprised by himself since hypnotherapy had called up his first visions of aliens. That otherworldly revelation had completely shattered his world view. He worried Joshua might have the potential to exact a similar effect from him.

Certainly, Mulder had the openness of mind to appreciate the aesthetics of both sexes; but to become sexually aroused and satisfied by a male, well, he just didn't know what to make of that and flipped back over on his side to look at the print-outs again. His detour was just that, he decided, a random occurrence. His work was his world and in that world was Scully. Whatever happened last night had no influence on that. Or so he hoped.

Scully had made thorough notes on the translations Nanette had given her. Letter for letter had been spelled out on the notepad he had torn into individual words. Comparing the notes to the photoprints, he realized for the first time that not all the letters were accounted for. Checking again, letter by letter, he was able to find four stray characters. He copied them down as accurately as he could onto a fresh piece of stationery and walked over to his laptop, taking a seat at the desk.

He searched the internet until he found an English/Russian dictionary with spell-assist. Activating the Cyrillic typeface option, he ran his fingers along the keyboard until he located the matching symbols on the notepad. E, N, O & P were the keys to hit and he began typing in random variations in groups of three and asking the dictionary to translate. The reply was the same each time--"No word match, try again"--until a particular arrangement caught the interest of the spell-assist and the computer rearranged the last two letters adding the fourth to spell, in phonetic English, the word CHUTOVE. 

***********************************

San Francisco Public Library   
4:10 PM 

'...nous sommes excitees pour votre arrivee...'

Mulder was tempted to check the morning paper for a special weather report from Hell. Not only had his by-the-book partner brought him illegally seized evidence from Joshua's manager's home this afternoon, but his virtually useless college courses in conversational French were finally beginning to pay off. Of course a freak cold snap in Hades would go a long way to explaining last night, too, but he really didn't want to go there again just yet. He didn't need any additional fuel on the still smoldering fire he was trying to snuff out and wondered if there was some truth to the phrase, "freshly fucked glow," and if so, would Scully be able to recognize it? The odd glances she was giving him as she sat across the table, leafing through an oversized World Almanac, might be evidence of it. Mulder didn't know if he should feel ashamed, apologetic or smug.

"Mulder...?"

He matched her glance passively. "Yeah?"

"Are you doing okay with the translation? We should be able to locate an interpreter for French far easier than the Russian."

"Je suis tres competent," he answered, hoping that meant, 'I'm all over it.' She just shook her head, cocking another weird smile, and resumed flipping through the musty book of facts, figures and numbers.

Mulder had the surreptitious photocopies of the lock box's French letters spread out in front of him, along with an English/French dictionary to help him with the longer words. He was a little weak on the past imperfect conjugations as well, but they'd already wasted two hours finding a Russian translator who was now over 45 minutes late meeting them at the library.

"Here it is, Mulder. Chutove, or Chutovo, depending on translation--a Ukrainian agricultural village of 12,000 people, 45 miles from the south-western Russian border. Their main crops are wheat, barley, vegetables, sugar beets, cherries and apricots...herding animals, cattle, sheep, goats..." she read on in silence for a few lines. "The population ratio of Ukraine is 73% Ukrainian and 22% Russian. Chief languages are Ukrainian and Russian. The monetary unit is the Hryunya and the chief religions are Ukrainian Orthodox and Catholic...Nothing significant is jumping out at me. What was particular about this village other than the fact Joshua's grandfather hails from it?"

"Je ne sais pas. Mais, l'homme decharne..."

"Mulder, cut the French, already."

He smiled. He got a good ol' fashioned eyebrow for that. It made all lack of logical sense that they'd be in step *today.*

"Tell me what they say...in English, sil vous plait."

Mulder tapped his pencil eraser on the edge of the copy, glancing over his translation notes. "From what I can tell, these are a series of letters dating from 1927-29 addressed to Nanette's mother in Nice, France from her sister, Anna, in Chutove, Ukraine. Nanette and her mother, Claire, were either abandoned or never claimed by Nanette's father, and from what these letters indicate, in need of a home. Most of the contents are related to a planned relocation for the both of them from France to Anna and her husband Ivan's wheat farm in Chutove."

"Is there a last name given for Ivan or Anna? Joshua's grandfather's first name was Ivan. That would make Joshua Nanette's second cousin."

Mulder looked the signatures over. "Both sisters are addressing themselves as Bizet--maiden names."

"Pardon me, but are you the agents who called me this afternoon?" A heavy-set man in his late fifties with dark curly hair and a short matching beard stood at the end of their table addressing them in a rich accent. Leo Petrovsky was the editor and publisher of the Ukraine Liberator, a native language newspaper for Bay Area-Ukrainian immigrants.

"Yes, Mr. Petrovsky," Scully said, greeting him. "I'm Agent Scully and this is my partner, Agent Mulder. Please have a seat. We appreciate your helping us during your deadline."

Petrovsky gave a curt grunt and nod and took a heavy seat in a chair at the end of the table. "I understand you need translations of some documents."

"We do," said Scully. "There are several pages, but, depending on your time, we'd like translations for these first." She pushed over a stack of carefully unfolded papers. On top was the singed synagogue document. Petrovsky picked it up gently, turning it over in his hands. His thick lips moved silently as he read it over.

"This is not Russian," he said, setting it down and laying his finger on it. "This is a document in the Ukrainian language, dated February 10, 1913. It is a birth record, handwritten by a rabbi. These are very rare. The paper is burned, it must have survived the destruction of holy places and relics during the Revolution."

"Is there a name for the child on the document?" Mulder asked.

Leo frowned, reading the document over again. "The name is burned. It is hard to read. The first name is Alexander, the family name is Ko...ka or Ko...kov, I can't be certain."

Mulder leaned back in his chair, rolling his pencil between his finger and thumb. "I've been trying to determine the cultural significance of a particular Russian phrase. Does '...bury the grain and slaughter the livestock...we are hungry,' mean anything to you?"

The man looked insulted and frowned at Mulder. "Of course, you are speaking of the terror-famine of 1933."

Mulder was surprised at Leo's gruff reaction, and tried to make amends. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with Ukrainian history. What famine?"

The man's dark eyes glanced Mulder over. "You are Jewish, correct?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes, partially."

"And you've learned everything there is to know about the Nazi Holocaust, am I right?"

"Of course."

"Yet you don't know there was an even greater crime committed against humanity in that same decade--genocide on a scale the modern world has never witnessed, and has almost forgotten."

Mulder tried to say something calming in what was clearly a hostile topic for this man, but Petrovsky was determined to explain it in his own manner.

"Millions of Ukrainian and Russian men, women, and children were murdered in the name of collectivization--all to prove a useless point, to enforce an inhuman form of government--socialism."

"How?" Scully interjected. The man softened at the sound of her empathic voice, but continued to bluntly relate the unimaginable details.

"Joseph Stalin ordered the murder of over nine million souls by the worst means possible--by starving them--a man-made famine. When Ukrainian peasants refused to bow under Soviet collectivization--the seizure of their land--he ordered the Red Army to march in and slaughter all their animals and take their food supplies. Then Moscow raised the grain procurement quota by 44%--a goal so high it left the peasants with nothing to feed their families. Farmers who failed to meet these demands or tried to flee their homes were shot or sent to prison work farms in Siberia.

"The work animals died first. Dogs and cats were eaten, bark from trees, grass, garbage, everything. Do you know what happens to a man as he slowly starves? The mind goes insane, loses all reason and value--parents were known to have killed and eaten their children."

Scully closed her eyes and her fingers touched her forehead.

"I am sorry for my coarseness," he said, addressing Mulder in a somewhat calmer tone. "But you, along with the rest of complacent America, should know."

Mulder nodded in somber agreement. "Would the village of Chutove have been ravaged by this famine as well?"

The man rolled his tongue about his mouth, thinking. "Chutove...oh, yes, Chutovo--as I recall it was deserted along with neighboring Poltava when the Red Cross arrived in 1934 to try and locate survivors."

Mulder slid a photograph toward the man, the one of Joshua's grandfather. "Can you estimate when this photo was taken by the caption or design of the tractor?"

Petrovsky looked at the photo carefully, pulling out a pair of reading glasses. "It looks like a Lithuanian-made thresher, circa 1929. My uncles had one similar. The words say: 'Ivan Segulyev and his new iron workhorse.'"

"You lost family," Scully said, understanding.

"Yes. Most of them. Five uncles and two aunts and their 18 children. I lost two half brothers. Only my father managed to escape into Poland. I do everything I can to see that they are not forgotten." 

###

5:50 PM

Mulder sat back in the scruffy plaid library chair waiting for Scully to return with their dinner. Leo was still working over the Russian/Ukrainian documents in his slow stubborn manner, refusing to speak a word until he was finished. Mulder picked up the Chronicle and leafed through it, not really reading more than the headlines.

He glanced at his watch. Two hours until he'd have to face Joshua again. He figured the best course was to thank him for the evening, let him know he had no regrets, but for the sake of the case (and his own questionable professional reputation), they'd best keep things zipped up from here on. Still, it was going to be some time before he shook free the memory of that dark head descending into his lap. He swallowed and unfolded the next section.

Joshua, roguishly handsome and leaning into the sound of his violin, graced the entertainment section in full color. Mulder recoiled from the unexpected jolt that image sent him. Jesus, didn't the man *ever* take a bad picture? It was a review of last night's performance--"Segulyev Mesmerizes Davies with Mendelssohn."

Mulder added his own caption: *Later, violinist seduces secret FBI guard in back of limo, film at eleven.* Mulder couldn't help but chuckle at his own indulgent sense of self-flagellation. Leo grunted from the table behind him and kept on scribbling and crossing out words, mumbling something about the absurdity of the English language.

Mulder ignored him and read from the review:

"...Segulyev takes risks with his phrasing, letting the emotion of the moment carry his bow into a daring diversion of the classic literature. His clarity of tone and exceptional mastering of the higher octaves at once thrills and fools the ear into an unbound sense of passion and sublime journey, tossing the soul of the listener as one gloriously lost at sea."

Mulder only had half an idea what the hell that was supposed to mean, but it sounded enthusiastic. The next paragraph wasn't quite so favorable.

"...A pity that in his later years this remarkable modern virtuoso has retired from pulling at the reins of advanced interpretation at what should be his most personalized moment--the cadenza. Where one would be expected to witness an unveiling of genius, one instead hears much of what Mendelssohn himself would have stroked from his own violin over 150 years ago. Segulyev falls flat with a technically accurate, yet unimaginative expression of the written notes. With the likes of Nigel Kennedy penning their own cadenzas, the violin concerto has experienced a revival of the art of improvisation unknown since the days of Mozart. Sadly, this movement has yet to make a pilgrimage to Davies Symphony Hall."

Who the heck was this guy to say Joshua's performance was unimaginative? Dick Greene, staff writer. Mulder doubted Greene had sacrificed public school and his playmates to begin studying journalism at the age of ten. He folded the section over in disgust as the scent of smuggled Mongolian barbecue filled the study room as Scully slipped in, closing the door behind her.

###

6:12 PM

Mulder stabbed his chopsticks back into the noodles, holding them while Leo made a big show of laying out his completed translations. The scent of soy and toasted sesame was beginning to draw forth a few wandering snifflers. It would be only a matter of time before he and Scully got booted for the inappropriate gastronomic use of library facilities.

"These are very important letters," said Petrovsky with grave conviction. "Very significant. Take good care of them. They are from a farming log written in Russian, kept by a man as his family entered the start of the famine. The first five pages mostly log the daily business activities, grain storage levels, weather forecasts and harvest estimates. The second section details an army raid made on the farm and the killing of their goats and pigs. He speaks of burying food to hide from the soldiers. He speaks of fear of hunger for his family as the winter settles in. There is an old Orthodox prayer, then he speaks of nothing. The log ends."

"This other document here is very odd. It is a list of family names--I have tried to spell them out phonetically for you. It is a register of a collection of a large sum of money--a total of 35,000 rubles."

"Is the family name Segulyev on the list?"

"Yes it is--right here."

"Can you determine the name of the author of these documents?" Mulder asked.

"There are no names given. The farmer refers to his friends and family by their association to him--daughter, son, wife--as is custom."

Scully then asked a question that completely baffled Mulder. "How much would that total on the register be in today's US currency? Anywhere close to sixty-thousand dollars?"

Leo looked impressed. "By today's standard exchange, adjusting for 65 years or so of inflation and unitary readjustment-- I'd say that would be a good educated guess."

 

* * *

 

*********************************

Chapter Nine: Don Giovanni

*********************************

6:35 PM

Mulder's cellphone rang just as he and Scully were heading out of the library. He answered it before the librarians could chase him out with shooshes and wagging fingers. It was Dillmont, sounding characteristically impatient.

"How soon can you get over to the opera house?"

"The opera house? Is something wrong?"

"No. Prince Charming asked me to call you, to tell you he's attending the opera tonight. Deal is, it starts at 7PM sharp--no late seating. I already had to stomach one concert today; no way am I hanging out for four hours of screeching fat women in armored brassieres."

Mulder smiled a little. So he was to be treated to the opera tonight. He figured he might as well get in one last cultural indulgence before ending this whole affair. "I'll be right over." Mulder returned the phone to his pocket and joined Scully outside on the long stone steps. "Scully, can I ask you to take a cab back to the hotel? I have to meet Joshua at the opera house in fifteen minutes."

Scully looked at him, intrigued. "The opera? I'm envious, Mulder. That man is spoiling you."

Mulder shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, these are his 'social hours' as he calls them."

"Whenever you get tired of being social, remember I'll be happy to switch shifts with you," she said with a parting smile, and stepped down to the curb to hail a cab.

"I might have to take you up on that," he mumbled to himself, heading off toward the garage.

###

War Memorial Opera House   
6:57 PM

Dillmont was practically hopping up and down at the side of the curb as Mulder handed his keys off to the valet along with a meager tip.

"Jeeze, it's about time you got here," he said, rushing up to Mulder with a ticket.

"Where's Joshua?"

"He's already gone in--he's got a real hottie with him tonight. You get to stand in the back. Sorry, I didn't mention that--but hey, this is your case."

Mulder glanced at his ticket in confusion. It had *standing room only* printed across it. "He has a *what* with him tonight?" Mulder asked, as Dillmont started pushing him in the direction of the red carpeted entry.

"Some girl--I don't know. Now we have to chaperone his dates. Guess you'll be sitting out in the car half the night. Well, have fun!"

Mulder stood there and blinked stupidly, watching Dillmont run off across the street toward the Civic Park Garage.

"Sir, if you'll hurry this way, we're about to close the doors..."

Mulder flicked the ticket with his thumb and headed into the War Memorial Opera House, alone.

###

The orchestra had begun the Overture by the time an usher with a flashlight led Mulder to the standing area behind the dress circle seating. It was an open pen of art-inclined humanity, too poor or too late to get seats. Mulder jockeyed for position between the waist-high leaning rails and peered into the gloom in sparse hope of locating the elusive musician among the seated hundreds.

The long velvet curtains opened and the arias got underway, echoing in Italian vibrato throughout the old 1930s gray stone structure. Mulder cursed his nearsightedness, until he finally spotted Joshua sitting not too far away in a private box--overhead and to the right. Dillmont was right; he was with a hottie--a hottie who seemed to have formed a permanent attachment to Joshua's right arm. What the hell was this all about?

Mulder tapped a young woman standing next to him on the shoulder. She looked up at him. "Can I borrow your binoculars?" he whispered. She gave him a big smile and removed the strap from around her neck, handing them over. Mulder thanked her and peered through the eyepieces, adjusting the focus until he could clearly see the hand-painted Greek gods and goddesses captured mid-flight in a mural across the ceiling and far wall. He then lifted his view to the private box.

Joshua was seated in a comfortable red velvet chair, dressed in what Mulder had come to recognize as his casual evening wear--a collarless rough silk beige shirt and light coat. His "date" was wearing a plain slip of a dress in pink with white flowers along the sleeveless neckline. She looked very young, only twenty or so. Mulder had no clue who she was, but one thing he was sure of; she didn't come here tonight to watch the opera. Her eyes kept flitting to the man next to her as he sat gazing forward at the stage.

"It's almost more fun to watch the audience, isn't it?" a voice whispered in his ear. Mulder lowered the binoculars, remembering his make-shift spy equipment came with an owner. He handed them back with a thanks, and tried to find a comfortable standing position. He settled for leaning against the near wall. He couldn't see the stage very well, but if he turned his head, he could keep a wary eye on Joshua.

###

8:45 PM

An hour and 45 minutes later, the tenors showed no signs of slowing down and Mulder's lower back was beginning a throbbing cadence of its own. He shifted from one leg to the other, hoping he'd eventually find a bearable position. He had no idea how he was going to manage another two hours like this without a packet of Tylenol.

Above, young Zeus and his consort gave the minions standing in the shadows no notice. So this was what it was like to be on the outside, Mulder thought with a gust of depression. Well, it served him right. This was what he wanted, after all--professional detachment. It's what he had insisted on in his life ever since Diana's desertion--permanent removal from the inconvenience of being convenienced. He'd set ground rules early with Scully and over the years, those hands-off conditions had left him in a endless state of limbo. As much as he wished he could make changes, there was no easy way to deploy them. Being with Joshua this past week had revived him and made him yearn for feelings of affection and intimacy with other human beings. Looking up with dread at the box high above, his worst fears were confirmed as he found the young woman's fingers laced in Joshua's as the strings bowed the duplicity of Mozart's minor-toned laughter in a pit somewhere below the stage.

Meanwhile, upon the stage, a young crass lover, Don Giovanni, in long robes and too much rouge, made quick work of deflowering the maidens of a small village. He threw charm and passion on every hapless female who crossed his path, leaving each simpering conquest cast away in his wake. Love could be so easy for some men. Why was his situation so...complicated? What was stopping him from allowing himself those same indulgences? There had been a time in his life, many years ago, when he'd rarely slept alone. It seemed like another life, another person than the man left standing alone in a crowd in the back of an opera house. At least he could still rely on the companionship his career afforded him. Scully's dedication to their partnership meant more to him than he could have imagined right now, because whether he could bring himself to name it or not, Mulder was feeling Joshua's rejection like a cold spade digging a fresh hole in his chest.

###

"Thank you, God," Mulder sighed, giving into a painful stretch as the curtains closed on intermission. He followed the rest of the flock out of the corral and slowly navigated through the clump of people exiting the seated aisles. Together, the murmuring mass milled into the main lobby where drinks were being served at a long bar.

Peering through the crowd, Mulder found them standing together near the bar, each with an ice filled glass in hand. Joshua's fingers curved under the belly of a cognac glass, swirling it absently while the young lady with her pearls and white neck laughed like a bell and raised the chilled wine to her red-painted lips. He watched her reach out with a slender arm to brush Joshua's coat collar with the long tips of her nails.

Mulder clasped his hands behind him and walked the back of the room, working the stiffness out of his legs. He was pretending not to watch her perfect white teeth catch the candlelight as she smiled up at those sinfully deep eyes and said any manner of unimportant things. Was she having an effect on him? he wondered. Did Joshua even have a sexual orientation, or did he reinvent himself as he went along?

Joshua had lovers before him, and there would be others to follow him--just as there were others in his own lonely life whose significance no one could touch, least of all this man. It was more than insulting to find an affair ended before you've had the chance to turn your lover down. No matter--sooner or later Joshua would retire for the night, the girl would leave, and Mulder would come in the front door and say his piece and take his stolid detached post at the couch.

A waiter was at Mulder's elbow, holding up a clear soda with a napkin stuck to its damp base. He took it, confused. "From Monsieur Segulyev." Mulder gave the man a quarter and looking through the ice and liquid he could see a dark stain leaching through the delicate white paper. He peeled it away and unfolded it at the concentric ring.

"It's not what you think. -J"

Mulder raised his eyes. Joshua was regarding him--for a moment of brief understanding--then he turned away and back to the lady at his side, who hadn't noticed she was no longer the center of his attention.

******************************

10:15 PM 

The statue was coming to dinner. Don Giovanni had insulted the dead commander's brass image--and he had risen from his grave to embody the effigy, seeking revenge on the brazen young man who had flaunted his talent for deceit and heartless seduction in the faces of an entire village.

The theatrical table was set and a resounding knock thundered against the tall door. The statue was admitted by the sniveling servant who soon fell to his knees. The voice from the grave called out to Don Giovanni, reaching out to him...leading him to his judgment.

"Joshua..."

Joshua dropped the hand of the maiden who had been holding fast to him all evening to turn around. In the shadows of the thick purple curtains at the back of the private box, he saw the Thin Man--gaunt and disheveled. With a cracked and bleeding smile, its bony hand reached out to him through the pleats. The horrifying pulse of the final act of Mozart's darkest opera rose as Joshua got to his feet to face him. The arm of bone slipped back through the slit and vanished.

"Joshua...?" The lady was touching his coat. "What is it?"

He shook his head. He couldn't have seen what he just saw, but the curtain was still rocking from the intrusion. He touched her shoulder. "I'll only be a moment."

He paused at the curtain before yanking it aside to reveal the darkness of the sloping carpeted hall, dimly lit by flickering simulated brass lamps. At the far end, the sidewing door was slowly easing shut.

Joshua felt his pulse rising as he jogged to the end of the hall and caught the door that led into a long stone hallway--backstage. He entered and his own footfalls echoed in the cold hall as he walked past empty dressing rooms and racks of flowing bedazzled costumes. On the floor were half-opened boxes of hats and shoes and powdered wigs. Ahead, he saw a coat rack tip over, casting woolen vestments across the floor. Joshua stepped over them and turned about, trying to catch sight of the phantom hand that had pulled it over.

"Hello...?" he called out, but no one was there to answer him. He moved ahead through a stone arch into a tall, wide room, cold and dark--filled with chairs, tables and props, covered in sheets and bound with cords, stacked one upon the other, smelling of dust and damp mold.

"Joshua..." it whispered to him. In the back, beyond a standing forest of fifty-foot-tall rolled backdrops, he saw a door opening and heard the sound of the street beyond, blowing a fog choked wind into the dark room.

"Who are you?" Joshua called out, shivering as his steps led him forward past a row of half-dressed mannequins caught in odd poses, staring blankly into space. He couldn't tell where the voice was coming from. It was as if it was calling from inside his own head--but it was a voice he didn't know. The opened door blew and thudded against the jamb, bouncing back open a crack. Joshua walked into the canvas forest, that stank of cracked oil paint and turpentine, and found a way to push through, careful not to knock one of the three-hundred pound trunks over on himself. It was tight and dark within the grove, but he could see the thin line of the door blinking ahead, leading him steadily until a hand reached at him from within the solid columns and he screamed, ripping his arm free of the fingers.

In the opera house proper, Don Giovanni raised his voice in one last bellow of defiance as black and twisted hands reached up from the stage trapdoors, belching smoke, dragging him down into hell.

Joshua stumbled his way through the forest of forgotten scenes and leapt out the door into the alley. The lights of a car were on him and the brakes screeched as the wheels skidded toward him.

###

10:16 PM

From his lower berth, Mulder saw Joshua rise from his seat and touch the shoulder of the woman seated next to him, then move toward the rear of the box, out of view. Something was going on. It wasn't like a musician to wander off during an opera's climatic scenes. Mulder excused himself from the pack of viewers and slipped out through the back curtains and into the hall. He turned to his left to rush up the curved passage to the private boxes. An usher stopped him at the top of the rise and Mulder pulled his badge, explaining that he was following a suspect.

Once cleared, Mulder made his way up the steep hallway, circling the edge of the opera house until he came to the row of box alcoves. The hall was empty; there was no way he could have missed Joshua leaving. He counted the number of openings until he found the right box and with a finger, pulled the curtain open an inch and peered in. The lady was seated alone in silhouette.

Looking up the hall to his right, he saw a backstage door, resting slightly ajar. He hurried over to it and slipped into the bowels of the structure, calling Joshua's name.

There were footstep ahead and Mulder heard the clatter of something falling and Joshua's voice calling out to someone.

"Joshua?"

There was no reply, and soon Mulder found himself standing before a dark archway which led into a large scene storage room. The lighting was very dim, but he could just spot a form slipping into the canvases piled up at the far end. He ran forward and followed him in, calling out to him. Joshua failed to respond and slid into darkness, screaming when Mulder made a reach for his arm. A moment later the violinist was rushing out the back door, oblivious of the car speeding up the narrow alley. Mulder made a leap for him, knocking both of them across the brick passage to safety as the car swerved at the last minute, plummeting into a wall with a deafening bang of buckling metal and shattered glass.

###

10:30 PM 

"... Joshua's okay--I've got him back inside. Meet me in back of the opera house as soon as possible."

Mulder ended the call to his partner as he pushed the dressing room door open, letting Joshua in ahead of him. The violinist reached for the nearest bench and eased himself down on it, brushing the dirt and powdered glass from his left pant leg.

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked, pocketing his phone. "You nearly scared the shit out of me."

Joshua looked down at his left side, wincing. "I'm okay, but I think the fall may have torn my stitches." He was beginning to pull his shirt loose from his pants. "Can you see...?"

Mulder kneeled on the thin carpeting and helped Joshua pull back the bandage. The wound was torn a little on one side. "You're bleeding. We'll have to get you back into the ER tonight."

"No!" Joshua said vehemently.

Mulder looked up at him, holding the bandage back against the man's side, feeling Joshua's agitation in the heart rhythm under his fingers. In truth, his own heart had yet to approach a normal tempo. The valet was dead, crushed behind the steering wheel. Mulder knew his call for an ambulance had been a futile gesture.

"If I go back to the hospital, they'll pick up the story for sure. A man was killed. You saw him...the blood. I want no part in this."

Mulder tightened his lips. "If you neglect this wound, I'll have no choice but to haul you in. What the hell were you doing, running out like that?"

Joshua looked pensive. "I was following someone."

Mulder wasn't in the mood to play guessing games. "Who, Joshua?"

Joshua regarded him obstinately for a few seconds, then he relaxed, giving in. "I saw the Thin Man again."

"Here? In the opera?"

"Yes. I don't have the slightest idea how he could have gotten in."

Mulder kept his hold tight on the man's side. "I do."

Joshua gave him a look of irritated disbelief.

"Dammit, Joshua. This...thing means business. You're going to get yourself killed if you don't start trusting your own eyes."

Joshua began to shake his head, "I don't think..."

"Did anyone else see this man? Did that woman see him?" Mulder couldn't help but let a little venom into his voice at the mention of her. It was easy to see Joshua picked right up on that. Well, at least he was selectively observant--his whole expression was changing to one that made Mulder's stomach drop.

"No, she didn't see him..." Joshua said absently, as if he didn't care to waste another word on her. He reached his hand out to touch Mulder's chin. The agent flinched away.

"God, she really upset you. Mulder, I was doing a favor; she's the Symphony Chairman's daughter." Mulder let his hand fall from Joshua's side and he looked away, resting his arm on his own knee, feeling heat rising to his neck. "I'm sorry. There was no time for me to call you. Dillmont didn't exactly get the hint and I sure as hell wasn't about to explain it to him..."

"That's enough, Joshua. It's over; it was a mistake."

Joshua leaned over closer to him despite the pain it caused him. "I don't believe that for a second."

Mulder didn't respond, just kept his eyes on the end of the bench.

"Don't sit there and tell me you haven't been thinking about me all day like I've been thinking of you, of how much I wanted you last night and how much more I need you tonight."

Mulder felt like he couldn't catch his breath, but refused himself the luxury of air as his eyes closed and he feigned resistance.

"Look at me and tell me you're going to put an end right now to something that's just beginning."

Mulder turned to face him before he opened his eyes *...tell me you haven't been thinking about me all day...* He couldn't tell him that; it would be a lie. He opened his eyes and met his adversary head-on.

Mulder couldn't tell who moved first, but somehow they met halfway with mouths eager to finish off this argument with a kiss. It wasn't gentle or subtle, and in Mulder's mind it quite simply blew off the last of his pretenses and false assumptions about the irrevocable attraction he felt for this man. Their kiss was deep and powerful. He felt Joshua slip off the bench toward him so his arms could grip him and Mulder felt the violinist's hands reach up and dive into his hair. The warmth of Joshua's mouth and tongue moving against his own was devastating, wreaking far more damage than any of the pleasures they had explored the previous night.

Mulder was ruined. This first taste, this first introduction to the inside of the man was making his mind bend with desire. He wanted in, as far as he could reach--as deep as he could fall, slip or move.

There were footsteps in the hall and the two men broke apart, coming quickly to their feet as War Memorial Security officers kicked the door open. 

*****************************

12:15 AM   
Sunday

"Why should I be surprised to find you here?"

Mulder didn't need to turn around to know that was Lt. Jarvis about to come chew his ass from where it was poking out of the passenger's side of the crushed '98 white BMW now sporting a brick and leather dashboard. The victim had been removed with the help of a hydraulic arm and a couple of body bags. What was left of the valet remained smeared in bloody splatters across the crumpled windshield.

Mulder reached for the claim stubs that had spilled from the victim's pocket onto the floor with a latex-covered hand, before easing himself back out of the stomach-churning mess. Jarvis was at his hip, chewing the front of his mustache.

"Mind telling me why you got your paws all over this car before my men arrived?"

Mulder wasn't in the mood to play 'territorial cop' as he fit the stubs into an evidence bag. "I was almost turned into hamburger by this vehicle when I chased a suspect through the backstage door into the alley."

"Which suspect?" Jarvis asked, doubtful.

"The unidentified thin man."

Jarvis' eyes grew suspiciously wider. "You saw the fella?"

Mulder nodded faintly and scanned the bystanders lit by flashing police lights to make sure Joshua hadn't wandered off again. He saw him lingering in the back, far from the yellow tape, trying to remain inconspicuous. Mulder had offered the musician his long trench to keep warm in the chilled late evening and to help hide him from the media that was beginning to file in by ones and twos. So far this incident was announcing itself over the scanner as a solo head-on, not an attempted murder. Mulder hoped it stayed that way for Joshua's sake, but if he didn't get him out of here quick someone was bound to recognize the violinist and start telling stories.

"I followed the suspect through the opera house into this alley just as the car struck the wall," Mulder explained to Jarvis. "The valet may have swerved out of control in an effort to miss him."

"That's a nice theory, son; but from the tire marks, I'd say the driver was aiming for the stage door, not away from it."

Mulder pretended to find this news enlightening, never mind the fact he'd observed that very thing from the start--before shouting at a nearby parking attendant to call security and rushing a stunned and shaken Joshua back inside to make sure he was safe and uninjured.

Since the crash, Mulder had insisted Joshua keep close to him until Scully arrived--but he had slipped off to locate his date and get her to her car before "the Chairman gets wind of this." It was the least the musician could do to stay put, Mulder thought, considering he'd elected to lie to the SFPD to cover him. Scully knew the real story, however, and Mulder wondered what was taking her so long to get to the scene.

Just as he thought it, Mulder saw his partner exiting a cab at the curbside. Her hair was a little damp at the edges--there wasn't likely to be much sleep for either of them tonight.

"My God, Mulder. What the hell happened here?"

"The fat lady was singing," Mulder grimly replied, leading her to the passenger's side so she could take a look. Jarvis had eased back and was talking with his men, hopefully placated for a while. In a low voice, Mulder related the true details of the crash and Joshua's narrow escape to her.

She leaned in to inspect the damage. "Where's the victim?"

"Scooped out and deposited in the morgue's freezer. I'd like you to autopsy what's left of the body, and determine if the valet had any brain or blood abnormalities like we've seen in Harris and Schmidt."

"Do you think the valet was deliberately aiming for Joshua?" Mulder held up the bag of claim tickets, spreading them out through the plastic. Written on the backs of them in felt-tip were hauntingly familiar phrases and on one, a line of Cyrillic.

"Joshua would appreciate it if we kept this aspect of the case under Federal jurisdiction," he said quietly and she understood. Stealing a glance at Jarvis, she slipped the bag into a deep coat pocket.

"I've gotta get out of here," Mulder said, beginning to move away from the mangled car.

"Where are you going?" she called after him.

"I need to take somebody home." 

********************************

Chapter Ten: The Sound of Silence

********************************

12:40 AM

The backseat of the yellow cab lacked a certain level of taste and privacy the two men had come to appreciate recently while traveling by car together. They weren't really free to communicate openly as the cabbie drove them carelessly toward the Marina. All Mulder could do was look.

Joshua appeared less shaken, but still agitated by the evening's events. The musician kept fiddling with the clip on the seatbelt neither of them wore, watching the road spin by. Mulder was surprised to feel a strange sense of calm, of resignation, and ultimately, a rising undercurrent of desire. He couldn't shake the recent arresting memory of pressing his face to Joshua's, hunting for his tongue. At the opera they'd kissed like secret lovers caught backstage at a dance before the chaperones forced them apart. He was somewhat glad for that intrusion. There was no predicting when they would have pulled away from each other. A strange romance was this, but one Mulder seemed powerless to stop. Soon they'd be at Joshua's apartment and Mulder could only guess at what was going to happen next. He just hoped they survived it.

Joshua's dark eyes were regarding him with apology and apprehension. Joshua knew he'd upset him, and was now plainly showing concern. Why wasn't he more concerned for his own life? His sanity? It wasn't every day a man in Joshua's line of work found himself face to face with death. For Mulder, however, it was just another day at the office. Mulder knew how to handle danger; it was seduction that remained a mystery to him--he'd have to trust Joshua in that. He had no idea what to expect now--all he knew was that he needed to feel the warm welcome of the man's mouth again, and soon.

###

Mulder paid the cab driver and the two men walked briskly up the entry to Joshua's flat. Joshua was fumbling for his keys under Mulder's coat, which he still wore over his shoulders. As much as he had wanted Mulder to come back to him tonight, he was nearly frightened by the quiet intensity he sensed coming from the agent who stood close to him, the soft green in his eyes growing sharper by the minute. It had been years since he'd been with a man. He wasn't going to get the door opened fast enough.

The agent uttered an expletive and Joshua was taken by the shoulders and pressed back against the wall as the man's mouth descended on his, pressing a hungry tongue past his own, slipping deep into him. Joshua felt himself harden in an instant as his head thudded against the white stucco wall and he gave up the search for his keys to the taste and feel of Mulder's warm tongue working its way around his lips and teeth.

Mulder was kissing him openly and passionately, with the urgency of a starving man. His mouth hard on his, Joshua could smell his sweat and cologne as his evening brush of stubble grazed his lips and chin. Mulder's hand was holding his head up to the wall for leverage as he sucked at his mouth with a less-than-tender force. Joshua noted it hadn't taken Mulder long to realize he was kissing a man and could come at him with a man's drive for physical pleasure. Mulder's long fingers were rifling through his short hair, adjusting Joshua to fit his mouth as he bore down on him from varying angles and pressures. Joshua found he had no clear memory of the last time he'd been kissed half this intensely. Mulder's tongue was exciting some long-forgotten pleasure center in his head. He wanted to drop, fall to the ground and be taken into the agent's rough custody. Mulder was taller and heavier than him and Joshua ached to submit to him--to lie down on his belly and be taken over without mercy.

Their mouths still moving together greedily, Joshua felt Mulder flip the coat lapel open and reach into his front pocket for the elusive keys. The agent's knuckles brushed the side of his cock where it lay prominent against the pleated fly. Joshua choked down the whimper he felt rising in his throat--he needed to be stronger than that. He reached up to grip and pull on Mulder's neck and shoulder. He needed to fight him to regain himself before he shocked them both with his capacity for physical possession.

Mulder looped his finger through the keychain and extracted it. His other hand held a fist-full of Joshua's hair as he pulled him back from his mouth. "I need to fuck you tonight," he said lowly between thick kisses, his eyes dark and wild. "Anywhere. Any way. Show me. I need to know."

Joshua found he had to look away from what he saw reflected in that beautiful face to keep himself in a manageable state of emotion. He closed his eyes and conjured a slow smile. "I'll show you everything." 

###

Sooner or later a man in deep arousal will find the instinctive urge to thrust just takes over. Mulder meant it when he said he needed to fuck. The mechanics were foreign to him, however, and he needed some guidance--but tonight his body was far too impatient to wait politely for the official tour into this chapter of male sexuality.

Joshua was under him in the bed, as naked as he. They were sliding over one another, slick with sweat and slippery where their cocks met hard and hot, a tense friction building between them as they rolled over the sheets, knocking pillows to the floor. Mulder was too far gone with arousal to stop the hand that kept insinuating itself between them, squeezing the head of his cock almost painfully as he fought to keep the man still under him, his mouth busily devouring his own, muffling their harsh, unguarded sounds.

If it had been a struggle with the keys outside, inside it was a battle of the removal of clothes. Men were too overdressed--there were coats, and buttons and other needless things that tied and clipped and fastened. Women needed a gentle undressing, a seduction. For men in this mindset, seduction was entirely unnecessary--foreplay, a joke.

Joshua's pants were barely to his knees when he'd dropped to the floor and made for Mulder's belt, pulling it aside with a grunt of quiet fury. Mulder's mouth was still numb from the bruising kisses Joshua and he shared, both outside and while stumbling through the door, when he found those perfect smooth lips around his hard and aching cock. Joshua loved to give pleasure; that was not only obvious in the way he was expertly stroking and licking his length, moaning, but also in how he played the violin. He gave himself over to each task fully, without restraint. It was easy to fall prey to it and just let the virtuoso have his way with his body, or his mind, through music or touch. But what Mulder really wanted tonight was to take pleasure rather than receive it, which was why he dragged Joshua to his feet and pushed him back onto the bed, pulling his shirt up over his head with two frugal moves of the arms and fists, parting the sheets for them to fall into together.

Joshua's tongue and teeth were taking long hungry tastes of his neck and shoulder while his practiced hands struggled between them, wet with saliva to find the organ thrusting against his pelvis and groin. "Come for me, come for me..." he kept saying, but Mulder was too busy trying to bury himself in a curve of thigh or a patch of slick soft belly as his arms reached under the man's shoulder and waist, trying to bring him closer--to thrust against him harder. Close as a kiss, Joshua's fist found him tightly and the urge to climax struck Mulder like an iron brand. There, it was right there and he raised himself, rearing to throw his ass into it--so the warm slippery fist could grip and pull and squeeze and he could close his eyes and thrust and feel it rising in him and peak, surging into climax. He groaned and came over the smooth pale chest of the man who moments ago was whispering to him and kissing him mindless.

******************************

Mulder's cheek was resting against the tile, his forehead on his hands. His hair and skin were warm and wet as the mist and spray of Joshua's shower gathered around him in a damp cloud. He was standing while Joshua was down on his knees, lathering and massaging the backs of his legs. The hands of a violinist are strong and stimulating to whatever surface they touch. It was heaven to be that surface as the warm soapy hands came up over his ass, rolling and kneading, pressing into the dip of his spine. There was a spot that had been sorely neglected and the shot of pleasure made him give into a shameless whimper.

A tenor's chuckle breathed across the tingling skin of his shoulders as Joshua came up closely behind him. "Have you forgiven me yet for making you stand for four hours?"

"Ask me again in ten minutes," Mulder answered. His eyes remained closed, enjoying the massage as it continued up his back and shoulders.

"I will. And again and again until you respond the way I want you to." Joshua's hands slid down around his hips to his balls, coating them in foamy lather and dragging Mulder's long, slippery, limp cock through his fist.

"You shouldn't have made me come," Mulder mumbled to the tiles. "Now you're in for a wait, regardless."

Joshua's chin was at his shoulder, his lips against his ear. "I enjoy waiting."

Mulder slipped an arm around him and pulled Joshua between himself and the tile wall, reaching for a kiss. He could feel the man still hard and impatient against his abdomen. His mouth moved from the musician's lips to his ear where he licked the delicate curves line for line. He ran his hand over Joshua's hip and gripped the offending organ, stroking it, as mouth met mouth again, kissing slower this time, dragging their lips over one another's, lingering.

"How's your wound?"

Joshua's head was tipped back, his lips parted awaiting another kiss. "What?"

"You were bleeding, remember?"

Joshua looked down at his side, slowing his breathing to touch the edge of the pinkish ripple of flesh. "It's stopped; I'll be fine. The hospital sent me home the other day with plenty of bandages..."

Mulder cut the health report short with a long tugging suck at Joshua's exposed neck. Still savoring the musician's throat, Mulder made a blind reach for the soap, lathering his hand with every intention of pleasuring this man in his own shower.

Joshua struggled against him, catching his wrist, rinsing it in the spray. "Not yet," he smiled. "Not yet. I want you in me when I come."

Mulder looked at him. The young man's dark hair lay wetly across his forehead, giving him an almost Roman look. "You were supposed to show me."

"Not like that, I wasn't. It's been too long for me. I need you to be gentle."

"I can be gentle," Mulder said, relaxing his arm, feeling suddenly very irresponsible.

Joshua kissed and nipped his lower lip, fondly. "*You* needed to get off. In the worst way, I might add. There was no slowing you down to point out the scenery."

Mulder felt a little embarrassed, sorry he'd been rough with him. Man or no, he still didn't feel 100 percent satisfied unless he served his lover just as well. "Give me a minute and we can take all the time you want."

"I'd like to show you something first," Joshua said, sliding down the wet wall to seat his ass on the edge of the shower lip, drawing Mulder's sudsy groin closer to his face.

"I'm an old man. I told you; he's down for the count."

Joshua looked up at him like a misbehaving child. "You're never too old for sex, Mulder. There's a lot you need to learn about the sexual nature of men." The young man's eyes returned to his swiggling cock as the soapy fingers of his right hand slid between his legs, stroking him from ass to balls.

Mulder knew what Joshua wanted and closed his eyes, giving in to the feeling. There were many apprehensions he still needed to shed. The last time anyone had touched him this way it had been anything but tender and it had ended in death.

Kristen. In the empty house they'd kissed for what felt like hours. He ran his tongue over every inch of her pale skin, between her legs, licking her to orgasm. She'd returned the favor, rubbing herself over his brazen hardness, teasing him with her moist cunt, and finally rewarding him with her mouth. She sucked him as a bloodsucker feeds, intensely, voraciously. He felt he might burst when her slick finger found its way up into his ass--probing. It was the first and last time he'd been penetrated. Her long nail made the invasion as painful as it was enthralling. It hurt and it felt good; what he wanted--he needed the pain. He couldn't come until he felt it so deep in him he wanted to scream.

But this was different. He no longer wished to be punished. He wanted a sanctuary from the guilt and obligations. He wanted to be free. He wanted to be taken. He wanted to nestle in and be safe.

Joshua--handsome, seductive, and gifted in more than just music, perhaps wasn't so unusual a lover for him after all. At least he hadn't asked for his blood. His slender, precise fingers were asking for something, however: entry, and Mulder took a step apart to let him in.

It felt better than he remembered. The teasing swirls around his anus coupled with the flow of warm water over his back was inviting, helping him relax. Joshua's mouth was against his bellybutton, his tongue mimicking the movements of his finger--more circles and a gentle push.

It wasn't like he remembered. This was different, pleasant, tender. More than the sex, what Mulder was starved for was the affection, the delight you feel from just being physically close to another human being. Joshua's tongue began to poke around his bellybutton, almost ticklish, as his finger worked its way deeper. Suddenly, Mulder found himself getting hard again--quickly.

"Ah, found you," Joshua smiled, licking his abdomen like it was made of sugar. He continued to press and vibrate his finger in that exact spot. Incredibly, Mulder felt a sudden urge to ejaculate. But somehow that couldn't be right; he wasn't nearly ready. Still, the sensation was the same. He gasped, gripping Joshua's hair as the musician slowly worked his finger out, standing up again and kissing him softly.

"That's what you need to find in me," he said, taking both hands to draw Mulder's face to his for another deep, wet kiss.

******************************

"Despite how it may seem, I'm not promiscuous," Joshua explained, tossing Mulder a towel as they made their way dripping out of the shower to dry off in the steamy air. "I haven't had a great number of lovers. I was truly lamenting when I said my fans were usually much younger or older. Maybe I should have been a rock star."

Mulder caught the towel and unrolled it, laying it over his back and sliding it forward over his chest, drying himself. "Hook an amp up to the violin? I've seen that act. They're called Jethro Tull--went out in the '80s. Stick to the classics--you're doing just fine."

Joshua looked up at him from where he was bent over drying his legs, to laugh outright. Mulder smiled, realizing how much he was enjoying this--making someone happy, sharing his body with someone again, awakening to their touches. He couldn't believe how long it had been for himself. What had he been waiting for?

"If you keep looking at me like that, Mulder, I might have to ask you to fuck me right here on the bathroom floor," Joshua said in a lower voice, as he ran the towel over his groin, squeezing the tip of his still-engorged cock in a toweled fist.

Mulder buzzed his short hair through the towel, getting it dried quickly, feeling his own half-filled penis stirring at the image that comment evoked. "Get us out of here, then."

###

Joshua brought an extra towel from the bathroom and unfolded it over the bottom sheet. "I hate messing the bed," he explained. He then bent next to his dresser, opening the bottom drawer, rummaging around. He tossed a tube of lubricant and a packet of condoms on the bed--the sight of which sent a stark signal of reality to Mulder that things were going to be a bit different from here on out. Fucking a woman required fewer drug store supplies. He wondered if he really had the guts to go through with this. Joshua stood up and laid himself down on the bed before him. Even if his mind wasn't quite tuned to this yet, his own cock was certainly interested, jerking involuntary at the sight of Joshua hard and waiting for him.

"I know you're nervous, Mulder. I won't hold you to anything. Just come lie down and relax."

Mulder slid down onto the cool sheet next to him and Joshua reached up and kissed his nose. The sweet gesture made him smile a little. "You don't like your nose, do you?" Joshua asked, amused.

"No," Mulder readily admitted.

"You shouldn't feel that way. It's one of your sexiest features. You have an incredible face--it's fascinating to look at," he said, running a finger over his chin. "I love unusual looking men. Calvin Klein models don't interest me in the least--they're too pretty. I like men who resemble men."

Mulder set his head on the pillow, feeling like a high school kid on his first date--both nervous and flattered.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I'd be just as pleased with your mouth."

Mulder came up on his elbow. "I want to do this; roll over."

###

Joshua grinned and rolled while Mulder came up behind him, spooning him. He shivered when Mulder began to touch him, running his hand over his chest and back and ass, unhurriedly, almost lovingly. His warm fingers wandered to his groin, caressing his balls, rolling them slowly, making him want to purr like a cat, but he decided it was best to keep himself somewhat in control. Not all men enjoyed enthusiastic displays of appreciation. So far Mulder had been relatively quiet in his passion, so Joshua reined himself.

Despite his assurances to Mulder, Joshua knew very well he wouldn't be half as pleased with fellatio. He'd spent most of the day fantasizing about Mulder's long beautiful cock--in his hands, in his mouth, moving deeply into his ass. Joshua loved being taken by a man. To him, being penetrated by a strong virile man, intent on reaching orgasm in his body, was the greatest pleasure on earth--an experience he hadn't received in nearly six years. He'd forgotten how much he hungered for it, how aroused thoughts of the act made him. It had been a struggle to resist the urge to relieve himself at some point today. That discipline was hopefully about to pay off for him in a most satisfying way.

Mulder stroked his cock with a maddening light touch until Joshua couldn't take it anymore and moved Mulder's hand, pressing himself onto his stomach, spreading his legs. "I hate having to put you through all the work," he said to him, quietly. "But it's unfortunately necessary. Open the tube."

###

Mulder kneeled behind Joshua and popped the top on the tube, somewhat relieved to see it had never been opened. He broke the seal and squeezed the clear gel out onto the tips of the fingers of his right hand, warming it with his thumb. "Use it like I used the soap a few minutes ago."

Mulder slipped his fingers in the warm valley of Joshua's ass, slickening the area and swirling gel over his pale anus. Joshua's back rippled as he moved against his pillow, burying a moan in the downy feathers. It sent a rush of erotic pride through Mulder that this simple touch seemed to affect him so much. "Does this feel all right?"

"Yes, it feels incredibly good," Joshua said serenely while Mulder ministered to him. "I've always been anal-erotic--since I was a child. It never occurred to me that I shouldn't be. It wasn't until I was older, in my teens, when some boys told me it made me queer. Whatever. I tell you, there are advantages to being raised apart from your peers. You grow up being more honest about yourself."

"Can I ask you something?" Mulder said, applying more gel, tracing his fingers around Joshua's opening, massaging the muscle, feeling braver about it. Joshua was a finely-shaped man, from all angles. It felt good to be touching him, like he was somehow connecting to a beauty within himself.

"Sure."

"When did you realize...? I mean, you were engaged to a woman..." Mulder stopped himself before he said all the wrong things.

Joshua just smiled. "Sometimes I want women; sometimes I want men. I don't attempt to explain it. I like certain people for who they are, not by their physical make-up. I often ask women to touch me this way. They won't always do it, though. You can slip your finger inside me now."

Mulder took his middle finger and pressed in, feeling the muscle give under the small pressure. He found it wasn't a particularly aversive thing to do. With the lubrication, the inside of a man felt a lot like the inside of a woman, only much tighter. It occurred to him there was no way in hell his cock was going to fit in there.

"Just slide your finger in and out, slowly going deeper," Joshua said in a hushed voice as he began to rock his hips slightly with Mulder's delving finger. He told him how good it felt and after a while to go with two fingers and how to tug at the resistance of the ring of muscle and how it would gradually open to allow for a third.

Joshua was plainly becoming more and more distracted by the sensations as he mumbled less directions and gave into longer sighs, closing his eyes and rocking into the terry cloth surface of the towel beneath him, stimulating his cock. Mulder found it incredibly erotic to watch him becoming so aroused. His own cock began to ache to be given the same attention. He wanted to rock his own hips, to thrust and find mutual arousal and gratification along with him. Mulder was suddenly hit with a wild fantasy image of secretly watching Joshua as he fucked that girl from the opera. He imagined watching the rise and fall of his ass, knowing how much he wanted her to touch his ass, to penetrate him. He saw himself naked and hard above him, moving over the two of them, entering him and fucking him while he moved deeply into the woman beneath him.

"Mulder...?" Joshua had turned his head and was looking at him, bemused. "Why don't you put a condom on. I think we're both ready."

Mulder pulled out his fingers and wiped them on the end of the towel. He reached back and tore off a plastic packet, removing the rubber ring, sliding and unrolling it down his cock. Joshua watched him with great interest as he lubricated the condom with an extra glob of gel.

"I haven't had anyone quite like you," Joshua said, with admiration, settling his head on his arms. "You're straight and narrow which is good, but longer than most. Take your time going in."

Not entirely sure how to go about this, Mulder just did what came naturally, and eased himself between the musician's splayed legs, aiming his cock down and forward. At first it didn't feel like it was going to go anywhere. He backed off.

"This won't hurt you?"

"Not now. You've readied me. You'll only hurt me if you make me wait. Just push until you feel me give."

Sitting up a bit, Mulder held the base of his erection and aimed it more carefully, shifting his weight forward onto his hips. Joshua's expression remained passive even though it felt like he was about to puncture something. Then, like a window suddenly opening, he was sliding in tight and smooth. He paused halfway, watching Joshua groan and roll his forehead on the pillow in ecstasy. "More," he whispered. Mulder pushed forward, grateful for the dulling sensation the condom lent him. A man was so much tighter than a woman, there was no room to adjust to a less-stimulating angle. His submerged cock was being born down upon with a tremendous pressure--it was everything or nothing. Mulder decided everything was a good place to be and slid in full. 

###

The realization of being penetrated by someone you desire was an experience Joshua believed no one should be denied. There weren't enough words to describe the feeling--to feel whole and complete, possessed, while aroused was something he'd been missing for far too long. His very first sexual experiences as a teenager had all involved penetration, with that young man he'd played on stage with for over a year. The closeness he'd felt opening up to someone else for the first time had been a divine experience, a celebration of the self. You know who you are when you begin to let another inside.

This was how he felt now that Mulder's body was merged with his. There was no other way to describe it--it felt like joy and peace and laughter. It also felt like his cock was going to burst if things didn't get moving along.

"Is that okay?" Mulder was asking him.

"It's perfect. Go ahead and move. Go gently at first."

Mulder was uncertain and his movements were almost annoyingly gentle. But Joshua decided it was better to start slow and build; he'd hate to ask Mulder to back off at any point. That might intimidate him and Joshua knew once he adjusted to the full depth of Mulder's gorgeous cock, he'd want everything the man could offer in drive.

Joshua fed another long moan to his pillow and tried to hold still while his body warmed to the deep sliding sensations coursing through his rectum. Some say the male body is designed for only one form of sexual satisfaction--the stimulation of the penis to orgasm. Bullshit. Joshua knew very well he craved a darker, more intimate form of sexual experience, one that drew his entire body into the act. Being slowly fucked by a man as beautiful and intelligent as Mulder was pumping a steady stream of spine-melting pleasure from his ass to his brain stem. His penis had nothing to do with it--he was only marginally aware of it right now, slowly rubbing against the terrycloth beneath him. 

###

"Come closer. Lay down over me."

Mulder came down off his arms so he could rest the majority of the weight of his body against Joshua's back and ass. It felt so good being this close to another person. Joshua's back was warm and smooth against his chest. He found himself slipping an arm around his waist, trying to hug him, setting his cheek to the man's shoulder as his cock continued to stroke in and out of the warmth of his ass, pressing them both into the soft give of the mattress.

Joshua's head was turned against the pillow, his eyes closed in what looked to Mulder to be utter bliss. He was moaning softly to him under each pump of his hips in an innocent keening way, like a child soothing himself to sleep. Mulder had assumed that when men had sex with one another they made sounds similar to jocks watching a football game, loud and obnoxious. Joshua was instead displaying a very delicate and private part of his emotional make-up, and that honesty was making Mulder's throat ache. It made him want to please him that much more, to keep him safe and sheltered in his arms. He kissed Joshua softly on the back of his neck, stroking his hair, letting this connection between them slowly build.

Joshua suddenly began to resist under him. A body that had been so pliant was now fighting him; he'd turned his face into the pillow, pushing up against Mulder with his arms. "Let me up," he groaned. Mulder immediately withdrew from him as Joshua came up onto his knees. "No, God, don't stop...I need to come." Baffled, Mulder shifted up behind him and reentered, pushing deep. Joshua's hand moved to his own cock, jerking quickly. The musician sighed loudly and came in several quick sharp spurts into the towel beneath him, squeezing the head of his penis, emptying himself. "Keep fucking me," he whispered, tossing the towel away and dropping back onto all fours. "Please, as long as you want, as hard as you want. Let me feel you."

There was a real pleading in his tone that drove a deep rush of sexual power into Mulder. He did as he was asked, pulling back and pushing in deeply until his groin thudded against Joshua's ass. The musician groaned and lowered his head, pushing back against him, submissively. "More," he pleaded. It was astounding to see a strong adult male presenting himself for such an invading act, in a sense begging for it. All those forbidden notions, those sins of sex, of sodomy, that had been only hinted to Mulder as a child, were making themselves known to him in real adult experience. He should have known better; he should have realized years ago that all the most forbidden acts between human beings are also the most exciting.

Mulder gave himself over to the pleasure of fucking, of overpowering someone--just letting go of his mind and giving his starved body permission to lose itself in the gripping, thrusting motions it was made for. Mulder's groin was brimming with pleasure as it moved with abandon in this new erotic environment. The sensations were all foreign; his cock was being too tightly held; he had lost his sense of knowing what to expect and it was locking his release in his balls. It was hell and it was heaven and he was helpless to do anything about it, so he stopped thinking and began to lose himself in the all-encompassing psychological grip of lust, thrusting and pumping short and quick until the resistance gave away in his groin, and he opened his throat to moan in pleasure as he felt his semen rushing from his balls and through his cock, gathering warm and wet into the tip of the condom buried deep inside Joshua's ass.

***************

"Please don't get up," Joshua pleaded, softly, opening his eyes, as Mulder exited the bathroom to come back to bed and lie down. "I know you need to stay awake. But don't get dressed yet. Sit up if you have to."

Mulder could see Joshua was in a fragile state of mind. He supposed that wasn't too unusual, considering he hadn't done this in a while. Joshua seemed sluggish to him, almost drunk with lassitude. It occurred to Mulder the man hadn't moved a limb from where he had pulled out of him.

Mulder got back in bed and pulled the sheet over them both, resting on his side, stroking Joshua's arm where it lay limp against the bed. "Are you okay?"

Joshua closed his eyes and smiled faintly. "Yes. I'm just acclimating. This act takes some breaking in, both before and after. I feel wonderful, though. Thank you."

Mulder touched Joshua's hair where it had wound itself into a small tangle over his brow, evening it out. "You're welcome."

"I don't know if I told you, Mulder. But I haven't done this with a man in over six years," he said opening his eyes, looking somewhat embarrassed. "I forgot how much I missed it."

"Well, I've got you beat," Mulder said, dryly. "I was working on forty years."

Joshua smiled, beginning to come back into himself. "Is that how old you are? I would have guessed younger."

"Thanks, but I don't believe you," Mulder said, tracing a reddish mark on the low curve of Joshua's neck. "Did I do this?"

Joshua grinned. "No. It's the violin. My mistress marks me where I hold her under my chin. All fair-skinned violinists and violists share this branding. You don't want to see what happens to tubists."

"I suppose I don't."

Joshua's expression turned curious. "How long has it been since you've been intimate with another person?"

Mulder looked at the pillow, saying nothing.

"You aren't going to tell me?"

"I'm embarrassed to tell you. Intimacy isn't a regular part of my life right now. It hasn't been for a very long time."

"Since your engagement?" Joshua offered.

"Aside from a few isolated incidents, yeah, as long as that."

"So you and Scully haven't...?" Joshua started to ask.

Mulder looked up, startled. "No. No, we haven't. She's my *partner.*"

Joshua seemed mildly surprised. "You make it sound like that's an excuse."

"I'm going to ignore that," Mulder said, coolly. He found himself defensive as he always was when he and Scully were mistaken for lovers. No, he thought, we're mistaken for spouses. Lovers carry about an air of mystique--he and Scully bickered like Ma and Pa Kettle.

"I'm sorry. I was only curious. I didn't mean to offend you."

Mulder touched the violinist's hand, realizing Joshua would have no idea how complicated things had become between Scully and him over the years. "I think I've just grown tired of being accused of something I've not had the pleasure of experiencing."

"So you want to sleep with her," Joshua stated cautiously. He seemed to understand this might not be an area he had privilege to, but couldn't help himself from inquiring.

A knot of tension wound itself at the center of Mulder's brow. "I don't know, honestly. It's complicated."

"Are you attracted to her?"

"Of course."

"Then...?"

"I think Scully and I have managed to evolve as a couple without actually engaging as a couple. We're devoted, protective, caring, yet some days we hardly seem to know what to say to one another."

"So you have the weight of commitment without its simple joys?"

"Perhaps. I'd rather not talk about it. She has no place in what happens between us. Let's leave it at that."

Joshua nodded in agreement, averting his eyes. "I respect that."

"The odd thing is, just these past few weeks I've been thinking about how much I've wanted to be involved with someone again, romantically. And to be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure until now if what happened between us last night was just a lapse of reasoning for me."

Joshua stilled, but didn't interrupt, letting him speak freely.

"It wasn't a lapse. It's...well, I don't know what it is, but I like it."

Joshua sighed, letting his tension go. "I think I'm very relieved to hear that."

Mulder exchanged a long look with him--conveying an unspoken understanding that neither of them was taking this situation lightly. "Joshua, I know I don't need to tell you that what happens in this bed or elsewhere needs to stay between us."

Joshua nodded. "Of course."

"You're a protected witness. It could mean my job."

"I'm also a man," Joshua said matter-of-factly.

Mulder wondered why he chose now to point that out. It sounded like a prepared statement.

"I'm not saying this to reproach you," Joshua continued. "I just know it can take some time to accept. I want you to know I'm very patient in that regard."

Mulder could sense Joshua had experienced rejection of this kind before. It was almost as if he was apologizing for not being female. The truth was, if Joshua had been female, Mulder never would have let him get this close. "Joshua. I'm okay with this. I really am."

"All I can advise you is to try and not think about it too much," Joshua said, finding his limbs and sitting up, wrapping a small blanket around himself. "Don't try to label yourself--just be honest," he said with a hopeful smile and headed for the bathroom.

###

When Joshua emerged, he tried not to let himself feel too disappointed at finding Mulder dressed and seated at the couch with his book light on. The rest of the apartment was dark. Mulder turned when he heard him, setting whatever he was reading aside.

"Hey," he said gently with those kind eyes that had been the first thing Joshua had learned to love about him. "Come here."

Joshua wrapped his blanket around himself and came to stand behind the back of the couch. Mulder reached up for him and Joshua bent to receive his kiss. "I'm sorry I can't sleep with you," Mulder said, stroking his cheek. Joshua began to feel a little less hurt. "Why don't you put something comfortable on and come join me?"

***************

3:11 AM 

"My childhood wasn't all bad, you know."

Joshua had settled in next to Mulder, warm under a blanket, reclining against him. Mulder was half-lying against the end of the couch with his arm around Joshua, stroking his hair. They were sitting in the dark, talking quietly, discussing what Mulder and his partner had deciphered from the contents of Nanette's lock box earlier that day. Joshua was relating how some of the photo images had reminded him of his first home.

"The farm in winter could be beautiful. I had a dog, Nell. We found a way out through a loose board in the back of the barn one day. In the morning, just as the sky began to turn light gray, we'd escape and run out across the fields coated in frost past the rows of icicles that would hang from the irrigation pipes. Beyond the fields there was a small pond and it would be frozen solid by the first of the year. I'd push her out onto it. She was always spooked at first, feeling the solid water under her paws. I'd run and slide and she would bark and chase me into the bare tree branches at the far end. The dog would curl at my feet, covering her nose with her tail to sleep and I'd sit there under that twisted canopy in the snow and listen to the morning.

"Have you ever listened to an early country dawn before the stars have completely failed?" Behind him, Joshua could feel Mulder shake his head. "It sounds like emptiness and wholeness--everything and nothing at all. I would listen to its grand pause--'tishena,' my grandfather called it.

"'Listen, Sasha,' he would say to me when it was quiet. 'The sound of silence is the most beautiful chord of all.'"

"Why did your grandfather call you Sasha?" Mulder asked.

"Sasha is a nickname for Alexander, my middle name. There was some argument over my birth name. My father wanted Joshua; my grandfather made a fuss over Alexander. 'A proper Russian name,' he said."

"Joshua," Mulder said with surprise. "Alexander is the first name of the child on the birth record Nanette kept locked away for so long."

"Is it? Well, it is a very common name. It could be anybody."

"But think about it. I can't keep track of my gas bill longer than three days. I don't imagine someone would hold onto a birth record for 86 years without a very good reason, or close association."

"Who do you think it is?"

"I think it's the man standing with your grandfather in that 1929 photograph."

"Why do you think it's him? The photograph doesn't name him."

"I don't know yet--it's just a feeling I have."

Joshua chuckled silently, rolling his head against Mulder's arm, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of pressed suit sleeve. He was beginning to lose the battle of staying awake. "Do you always work on hunches and feelings?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"Mostly."

"Are you usually right?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Joshua..." Mulder paused before changing the subject. "Did your grandfather ever talk about a famine in Ukraine?"

"A famine? No. He mentioned times were hard and people were losing their land, but he never said anything about a famine. He spoke very little about his past."

"I learned today at the library that there was a Soviet-induced holocaust in Ukraine between 1932 and '33--nearly nine million people died."

"That's around the time I understand my grandfather left his country. How horrible. I wonder why he never mentioned anything about it."

"So do I...Oh, I meant to mention," Mulder said, tapping his arm. "I saw your concert review in the paper today."

Joshua made a grumbling sound.

"That's what I thought, too. Who are these people to be so critical of what you've spent a lifetime perfecting?"

"One moment they spear me for being empirical, the next, they accuse me of being pedantic. I learned a long time ago not to read my reviews too closely. Yet the mention of Nigel Kennedy didn't slip past me."

"Who is he?"

"A British violinist who recently made classical music history by bringing back the art of the improvisational cadenza--a practice unobserved since Mozart's time."

"Improvisation?"

"Yes. The idea is the musician should be so melded to his instrument, and the heart of the composer, that when the cadenza begins, he or she will slip into an improvised solo. Only jazz and rock musicians improvise solos. Classical music has been a planned form of musical expression for hundreds of years, but modern virtuosos are changing that, and critics are expecting the rest of us to follow suit."

"Have you ever tried it?"

Joshua closed his eyes, feeling sleep coating his mind. "Not onstage, but often, when I'm alone, I'll play something that comes into my heart." 

###

The next thing Joshua was aware of was the sound of Mulder's voice, whispering to his partner as he slipped out the front door. Something to the effect of, "I don't know why he fell asleep on the couch."

Joshua's head had a pillow set under it and an extra blanket had been thrown over his legs. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep. 

************************************ 

********************************

Chapter Eleven: Nanette

********************************

SF FBI Field Office   
12:11 PM 

Mulder flipped through the photocopied threat letters sitting on the evidence table in front of him one by one, going through the motions, not really seeing the words anymore. His mind was elsewhere as he waited patiently for the handwriting analyst to reach her conclusion. He could see her through the interior window to the lab, bent over a binocular microscope, carefully shifting the brittle pages of the Cyrillic farm log over the lighted base. They were looking for a match.

Mulder shifted his legs in the cold chair, trying to stay alert and keep his mind from reoccupying itself with memories of last night. It was too easy to lose himself in remembrances of the smells and sounds and visions of sex. He'd slept like the dead last night, mollified by the endorphin rush. It's amazing how quickly the body readapts itself to an active sexual status--once it gets a really good taste, it only wants more. Joshua, naked and warm, moving under him, making small sounds, responding to his touch, was everything he could need right now. It would be so easy to just blow this whole investigation off and go lock themselves in a secluded hotel room somewhere and fuck each other senseless.

"Agent Mulder?"

He sat up straight, wiping the fantasy clear from his mind. Dammit, he needed to get his priorities straight quickly before he made an ass of himself, or gave himself an erection, whichever came first.

"Yes?"

"I think you're going to want to see this."

He stood and moved through the connecting door, joining the analyst behind the magnifier. She offered him to take a peek. He bent to peer through the lenses. He was looking at a close-up of a Cyrillic character that looked similar to an uppercase "B."

"Take a look at that letter and note how the bottom stroke fails to connect to the stem."

"I see that," he said as the paper was whipped away. He stood back and let her readjust the viewer to a cell wall photograph, same character. He looked again. "And this is a match, right? I see the same anomaly in the bottom stroke."

"Yes, it is a match--a definite match. But look again, here." She removed the photo and set in one of the earliest handwritten threat letters made before Joshua had arrived in San Francisco. Mulder peered into the dual eyepieces again. It was English, but a similar letter, a capital "B" had the same unconnected characteristic on the lower loop.

Mulder stood up. "They're all a match. So, I'm correct in assuming that the phantom author is also the same person who wrote this farm log and register?"

The analyst nodded in agreement. "Except, from what you've told me, this would have to be a very old suspect to be writing in adult penmanship from the late 1920s until today. How old is the woman who had these documents in her possession?"

"She looks to be about seventy."

The analyst shook her head. "It's not her, then--she'd be too young. A child's writing takes time to develop into an adult script."

"Do you think the 1930 documents could have been forged?" Mulder asked, leaning against the edge of the examining table, tapping the yellowed farm log page with his finger.

The woman looked skeptical. "I doubt it," she said, taking another look at the farm log sample under the scope, readjusting the knobs. "No, I don't think so. The implement used to script this document is consistent with free-flowing ink pens common to the late 1920s. It's not a ball point, in other words. Plus, the India ink has faded to a brownish hue--that takes at least forty years. If someone alive today forged these papers, they did an extraordinary job."

************************

12:35 PM

Mulder was just thanking and sending the analyst on her way when Scully arrived at the field office, meeting him at the front door. He held it open for her.

"You're going to be very interested in what I found out this morning," she said, leading him into the first conference room.

Mulder sat across from her at the table as she pulled out a set of photocopied documents from her file bag. "I tactfully asked Dillmont to pull an early shift so I could get a head start on a hunch," she explained.

She slid two documents out side by side so Mulder could read them--a marriage certificate and a death certificate. "The San Francisco County Recorder was kind enough to drop everything and dig these up for me this morning," she said.

Mulder glanced them over. "This is Nanette's marriage license," he realized.

"Yes, and her ticket to US citizenship. The problem is, she married a dead man."

Mulder looked up. "Is the certificate a forgery?"

"Yes, and so is the death certificate. When I followed Joshua to Nanette's home office, he mentioned she had married a Barry Anderson out of convenience while Joshua was away on tour in Europe in 1989--which, I've found, happens to be the year her working VISA was due to expire. According to these two official documents, she would have married Anderson five months before he succumbed to bronchogenic carcinoma, lung cancer. The records looked good until I put in a call into SF Hospice. They gave me the name of the nurse who had been assigned to Anderson's care. I reached her about an hour ago. She can testify for certain that Barry Anderson died two weeks before Thanksgiving, in his home, over a month before his supposed wedding day."

Mulder stroked his lower lip. "So Nanette's been living here on borrowed time."

"And stolen money."

"You've got a lead on Joshua's missing $60K?"

Scully nodded and passed a bagged canceled check and several bank account statements across the table top. "Nanette opened an account with Golden Gate Savings two days after her 'marriage,' under the name Anna Anderson. The account held a small savings of five thousand dollars until just six months ago, when deposits and withdrawals in the amount of $10,000 began to come and go monthly."

"Where was the money being sent?"

"That's where things get really interesting," Scully said, pointing to the canceled check. Mulder smoothed the plastic down so he could read it. The check was made out in the amount of $10,000 to the 'Recovery Foundation of Poltava Province.' On the memo line Nanette had written 'final payment.'

"She's been paying back a debt to charity," Mulder realized.

"Yes, it would appear so. I checked my Eastern European geography--Chutove is a village within Poltava Province."

"Interesting that she's been paying it back with Joshua's money," he said, tapping the table's edge with his finger. "Why?"

"I think we should ask her ourselves. We have grounds to bring her in on document forgery."

Mulder agreed, but added, "I also want to call in a psychoanalyst."

"Why?"

"I just had the Cyrillic handwriting in the farm log compared to the legible scrawling on the cell wall. They're a match."

"But Mulder, aren't we assuming Joshua's grandfather, Ivan the farmer, penned that log in the 1930s?"

Mulder shook his head, admittedly befuddled. "I'm thinking they're a forgery--some sort of blackmail Nanette concocted to get Joshua's grandfather to help her defect to the US. I want Nanette to submit a handwriting sample while under hypnosis. If she's an expert forger as these documents would lead us to believe, then she can forge her way right through the test. But if she's in trance, there's no telling how many multiple 'personalities' may come to light on paper."

Scully caught his logic. "You think she might be the hand of your Thin Man, Mulder?"

"I'm not positive. Not everything adds up, but she's the best shot we've got. That, and I find it ironic that 'Anna Anderson' was also the Americanized alias of the Polish mental institution patient who fooled experts for decades into believing she was Anastasia."

********************

2:24 PM

Mulder stepped out of the interrogation room, where Scully was still trying to calm a very frightened Nanette Anderson, and made his way over to the coffee vending machine. He plunked in a few quarters and waited for the cup to drop and fill. Mulder had decided not to read Nanette her forgery charge in the event she would kindly submit to the handwriting exam. He was dead wrong. She wouldn't agree to anything. He could see the psychologist he'd requested from Behavioral Sciences pacing the hall just outside, giving him that 'look' again--the therapist had 'real cases' to get back to, he'd said.

This whole scheme hadn't gone nearly the way Mulder thought it would. The old woman was acting panicked and erratic--begging for a phone call. He'd granted her one about forty minutes ago. One guess who she'd called. The gurgling machine shut off and Mulder picked up the paper cup, only half-filled with thin, brownish, tepid fluid. He drank it back quickly--he needed the caffeine to brace himself for the ensuing encounter.

Mulder tossed the crumpled soggy cup in the wastebasket, rinsing the foul taste from his mouth with a swallow of equally awful-tasting drinking fountain water. It didn't surprise him one bit to hear some familiar commotion coming from the lobby.

"No, I won't take a seat. I need to speak with Agent Mulder immediately."

Joshua was coming up the hall, not sounding very pleased. Mulder spared the clerk and popped his head out the door. Joshua stopped in the hall where he had marched just past him and turned, flustered. It seemed he had given Dillmont the slip.

The clerk caught up with him. "Sir, this man is insisting..."

"It's all right," Mulder said, opening the door the rest of the way. "Joshua, please come in and have a seat." Mulder could see the man was beyond agitated with him. So much for the afterglow. He addressed the clerk. "And could you please call Agent Dillmont and tell him we have Mr. Segulyev?"

"Agent Dillmont knows exactly where I am--he's parking the damn car," Joshua said, following Mulder into the room, waiting impatiently for the door to shut before he started up again. "What's going on here, Mulder? I came home to hear a call on my voice mail from Nanette, in tears, telling me you'd arrested her."

Mulder shook his head. "She's not charged with anything. I have her here to submit to a writing test."

Joshua still didn't look remotely satisfied. "What the hell for?"

"The letters you brought us from her lock box--some of the handwriting matches the Cyrillic in the threats."

Joshua stood with his mouth slightly open. "I didn't bring you those letters so you could throw her in prison--she's an old woman for God's sake!"

"Joshua, please calm down. It's okay."

Joshua set his hands on his hips. "Don't tell me to calm down. I want her released."

Mulder reached for Joshua's elbow to still him, but he took a step back. "Joshua, I'll let her go as soon as she agrees to the exam. If she's innocent, she has no reason to resist."

"No reason? How about scaring her half to death by locking her in this place?" Joshua pointed in the general direction of the interior offices. "That woman has seen first-hand how 'authorities' deal with suspicious people. She grew up in a country where women's heads were blown off for so much as saying a prayer. She has absolutely no reason to trust you."

Mulder folded his arms and looked down, waiting for Joshua to finish his rant. Joshua waved his arm up into the air in a gesture of frustration and turned around, pacing.

Mulder spoke quietly to him. "If you could talk to her--tell her it's okay--she'll take the test and be home in time for dinner."

Joshua still had his back to him, but he could see the violinist was rubbing his forehead, beginning to give, having blown off the top layer of his anger. He looked over his shoulder at Mulder. "You *promise* me you'll let her go as soon as she's done?"

"I promise, but there's something you need to know."

"What?"

"Nanette's been sending your mortgage payments to Chutove, Ukraine." 

### 

  
Archived: 13:00 03/14/01 


End file.
